The Secret of the Ancient Alchemist (37 page)

“
Could
these pages be forgeries?” he asked, his tone a reflection of a
semi-battered man. So much had happened to temper his passion. It
wasn’t just Olsen’s passing which had left him in pieces but
Professor John Donnelly’s insistence on the missing gospel pages
being false. Deep down, he was hoping they weren’t.

“
Of
course. It happens all the time, spurious claims of ancient texts.
That’s why I’m here, to verify them.”

“
I’m
aware of that, but, from what you’ve seen so far, have you formed
an opinion?”

“
There’s
a chance they may be authentic. In that case, this’ll be a
remarkable find. The Gospel of Mary Magdalene was central to
Gnosticism and it would cement Magdalene’s importance to
scripture.”

“
D’you
have any idea why these pages went missing?”

“
Ancient
texts when found are rarely complete, Hart.”

“
There’s
no other ancient text that deals with matter. Do you know of
any?”

“
It’s
what makes this gospel so special. It’s remarkable, isn’t
it?”

“
Yes.”

“
No doubt
heresy would have played a role in their disappearance. It would be
insightful to find out exactly what was said in those pages. I
haven’t done the translation of yours as yet.”

“
I hope I
don’t have to wait long.”

“
No. It
shouldn’t be too long again.”

Hart felt
encouraged. His tone improved considerably when he spoke again. “Do
you know what dark matter is, Dr. Lengard?”

“
Dark
matter?”

“
Yes.”

“
I can’t
say I do.”

“
Dark
matter is the mystery of the universe.”

“
Why?”

“
Because
we don’t have a clue what it is. It may be supernatural because it
doesn’t follow any of the norms of normal matter such as reflecting
light. It makes up more than ninety percent of the
universe.”

“
Ninety
percent of the universe is unknown to us?” Lengard was genuinely
surprised.

“
I’m
hoping the pages will have something on it.”

“
Well,
maybe they will.”

“
Pages
eleven to fourteen are also intriguing, don’t you
think?”

“
What do
you expect from them?”

“
Even
more, Dr. Lengard.”

“
Like?”

“
Confirmation of a supernatural mind in us, a mind that
gives visions. I know you are familiar with the gospel.”

“
Quite
so.”

“
What
would it is in line 10 refer to?”

Lengard
chuckled. “I’m as anxious as you are, Dr. Hart, believe me. We’ll
know soon.”

Placing the
phone away, Lengard turned back to the gospel pages Hart had given
him.

“
Here,”
he said pointing as Carla Horsham looked on, “is the sort of
grammatical usage common in Coptic writing as, for example, the use
of Emphasis Pronouns like Thou art, or the Possessive Pronoun,
Thine, or the Independent Pronoun, I, as in, I am the Son of God.
Demonstrative Pronouns like this and that were also used, as in,
this is the way. You can also look for Verb prefixes used in
describing occupations like cloth-weaver or yoke bearer. I’m seeing
evidence of this usage in Hart’s pages and evidence that it was
translated from Greek.”

“
So, the
philological knowledge of the language, the vocabulary and grammar
can help identify forgeries as opposed to authentic
documents.”

“
And,
too, because of the shortage of paper, some words were abbreviated.
See here. The writer used small, upright letters about 2-4mm in
width.
Mu
is written in
four strokes,
rho
has a small
head,
upsilon
is tall
and narrow.”

“
I can
see that, Ave.”

“
Note the
way the ink is preserved. It’d be difficult to do that in a forgery
though, I must say, it’s not impossible.”

“
The
insect damage and decomposition would also be difficult to
forge.”

“
That’s
true. Did you send off the papyrus fibres I managed to scrape out
to the botanist, Jonathan Bradshaw, at the Smithsonian?”

“
Yes, I
did, Ave. He says he has to place them under an electron microscope
in order to determine the extent of decomposition of the cellulose.
It’s going to take a couple of weeks.”

“
Okay,
good.”

“
Have you
done the translations, yet?

“
No, I’m waiting on Bradshaw’s results. I must have them
first.”

Chapter 85

Far away in New
York’s Julliard School of Music, a young voice called.

“
Master
Reinholdt, Master Reinholdt.”

Carl Reinholdt
turned around. At sixty-five, he thought he had seen it all. The
boy’s resemblance to Johann Bach first jolted him. The deep-set
eyes and whimsical curve of his smile were almost unnerving.
Reinholdt shook his head staring at his composure and intensity. He
watched as Alejandro Ferelli placed his instrument to his shoulder
and waited for his cue.

“
Please
begin.” He commanded.

Bach’s Violin
Sonata in A Minor poured, filling every inch of the room with glory
and passion that Carl Reinholdt understood too well. It wasn’t long
before he lifted his hands in the air and spoke.

“
Alejandro, there is nothing more to teach you. You are the
genius of this century, like none the world has ever seen. You can
move on now to the great concert halls, playing for the world to
see and hear.”

“
Thank
you, Master Reinholdt but I want to compose,” Alejandro
said.

“
Of
course, yes of course!”

Reinholdt’s
silence lingered. Impatience sizzled in the young man.

“
Well, do
you think I could, Master Reinholdt?”

“
Yes, but
first, Alejandro, I would need more time to think about it. I have
just under an hour left and there are more performances to assess.
I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Alejandro moved
to another room as Reinholdt walked to the end of the long
hall.

“
Play it
again,” he said to the girl on the piano.

The music of
Liszt’s Maggiore thrilled his soul with its clarity and perfection.
His eyes filled with tears as he watched the child’s small hands
move effortlessly across the keys, playing a concerto few would
hardly attempt. The little girl stopped ten minutes later and
straightened up, placing her hands at her side.

“
Christina, you’re simply wonderful. When you play, the
Greek gods listen. Liszt must be smiling. Be a good girl,” he said
with a light heart, turning to his phone that rang. “Ya?” he
answered.

“
Mr.
Reinholdt, my name is Radan Olsen. Please listen to me. Someone is
going to kill Alejandro. I believe it’s the Brotherhood. Do not let
him out of your sight.”

In a flash,
Reinholdt dialled Santiago Ferelli.

“
Mayor’s
office, can I help you?”

“
Mayor
Ferelli, please. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“
One
moment, please.”

Reinholdt
prayed Ferelli wasn’t in a meeting.

“
Sorry,
the mayor is not here now,” the reply came.

“
Do you
have his private line?”

“
Sorry, I
can’t give it out.”

“
This is
urgent!” he shouted on the line.

“
I’m
really sorry but I can’t give it out.”

Deeply annoyed,
Reinholdt shut the call. Bach’s Violin Sonata in A Minor sounded in
the air again.

“
Alejandro’s still here,” he whispered. “How can I tell
him?”

In the hall,
Reinholdt stared at piles of music sheets, records and dozens of
reference books wondering what he should do. The music had long
stopped when he got up and looked around. Alejandro was nowhere.
Reinholdt rushed out and caught sight of the twelve year old moving
to Lincoln Plaza. As he made a dash for him, a long line of cars
slowed him in his tracks. In the distance, he could see Ferelli’s
black Mercedes pulling to a stop in front of the plaza.

“
Santiago! Santiago!” He shouted at the top of his voice
bumping into a priest. “Sorry,” he said as he ran across the
street. It was summer and Lincoln Plaza was packed with tourists
and sightseers who had come to New York. “Where is he?” he agonized
not seeing Alejandro.

From the crowd
taking photos, Alejandro emerged and moved towards the car. Walking
steadily, he neither heard nor saw Reinholdt running toward
him.

“
Alejandro, wait!” Reinholdt shouted hopelessly as Alejandro
opened the back door of the mayor’s car and got in. The car sped
away.

Chapter 86

“
Hi,”
Alejandro said to his father placing his violin on the back seat of
the car.

“
Everything went well today?”

“
Yes,
very well, Dad.”

“
I’m
glad.” Mayor Ferelli spoke as if the world rested on his shoulders.
And, it did. The Indian Point nuclear plant was a constant source
of worry to him but not as much as the failed attempt at evacuating
parts of New York City.

“
Look
Dad, quit worrying so much about the city and the spate of
tremors,” Alejandro said, noticing his father’s drawn face.
“Everything’s going to be alright.”

“
Why
d’you say that, Alejandro?”

“
Well,
Aunty Mandy had a painting once called The Dawning. Christina told
me about it. There’s a date on it for a new age.”

“
Do you
know if she still has this painting?”

“
I don’t
know, Dad. Maybe, she does.”

“
Have a
look.” Ferelli’s driver was taking the Long Island express to the
Midtown Tunnel when he stretched his hand and handed Santiago his
cell phone.

Santiago stared
at the image. “What the hell I got to do with a priest?”

“
Saw him
staring at Alejandro. Looked kind of crazy to me.”

“
Maybe
he’s an admirer. Alejandro has loads.”

“
You
should run a check on this guy.”

“
Nah.”
Santiago leaned back on the cushioned seat to rest the weight of
his mind.

“
Where’re
we going, Boss?”

“
Drop off
Alejandro on Greenwich Street. I’m going to Queens.” He plucked his
phone from his jacket and dialled a number.

“
Hello?”
Mandy answered. She was the wife of the late artist, Francis La
Croix. She came come upon hard times when La Croix passed away
forcing her to take a job as a cashier at a
super-market.

“
I’m
coming over. I need to talk to you, urgently.”

“
Now?
“she asked. “I’m still at work.”

“
There’s
some traffic but, I’ll be there in an hour.”

Mandy sighed.
“Ok, I’ll be at home.” Staring at her watch, she realized she would
have little time to prepare for Ferelli’s visit. Lifting her head
now, she spotted her favourite customer. “Hey, Josh,” she
called.

Marin was
standing at the checkout counter staring into the air, seemingly
lost. At home at his Jackson Heights apartment, he had gobbled the
remaining bits of his lunch and had darted to his fridge to check
for items he badly needed. He had an obsession for detail even
while at home but that was just how he was. It made life easier.
Picking up a short list, he had headed to the store. He had walked
through the aisles gathering the items he needed without taking
time to browse bargains, as he would normally do.

He turned to
Mandy. “Hey?”

“
You’re
okay, Josh? You seem so lost.” Mandy was very fond of
Marin.

“
My mind
was far away. How’s Christina doing?”

“
She’s
doing fine.”

“
That’s
great.”

“
You must
come and listen to her perform. She keeps asking for
you.”

“
I will
and soon.” Marin grabbed a bag and started heading out.

“
Wait!”
Mandy called out after him.

“
Yeah?”

“
You
forgot your change.”

“
Thanks.” Marin managed a smile as he walked away
again.

Chapter 87

The walk back
to his apartment was a slow one for him. He gazed at the multitude
of high-rise buildings and car-sales lots thinking. The native of
Florida never felt lonely in New York even though he didn’t date
much. He didn’t like casual relationships that went nowhere.

He hadn’t yet
met anyone special and decided to wait until the right one came
along. He wasn’t about one-night stands and didn’t like
complications of any kind especially personal ones. He took solace
in his work as well as the concert halls and art galleries spread
about the city. At his young age, he always felt confident. His
bright smile left an indelible mark on all those who met him but
his attractiveness lay in his calm demeanour and caring spirit that
shined right through his large brown eyes. Now, Marin felt as if
his life was an ugly blur in a sea of great uncertainty. The vial
of painkillers he had bought fell on the ground as he opened his
door and headed to the kitchen to put items away. Having finished,
he lifted his head and looked at his three-bedroom flat, glad at
least his weekly clean-up was over and done with. A simple man, his
humble abode lacked the trimmings of an upscale townhouse and his
morning view was nothing more than a parking lot. Needing coffee,
he poured a cup of the Brazilian blend he liked. With weary steps,
he headed to his armchair and plunked himself down, placing his
feet up. He thought of calling Pearce but decided against it.
Pearce would need more time to find Olsen’s data, he reckoned.
Marin couldn’t believe he wasn’t actually thinking about it. He
finished his coffee and, checking the time on his clock, decided to
head back to work. It was on Fordham Road in the Bronx that he
halted his steps at the sound of a shrill voice.