Eden Relics (A Zac Woods novel #1): Author royalties for Cancer Research

by N Williams

  ‘They don’t exist anymore, surely?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, mate! Every secret society from the past still has some influence on our world today. The Alliance is a baby compared to the Templars and the Masons, only about a hundred years old, but it’s bloody powerful; it’s full of top Church people. The top nobs from the Catholics, the Anglicans, the Jews, the Muslims - you name ‘em, and they’re involved.’

  ‘Why would the heads of such seemingly opposed religions get together in some sort of secret sect?’

  ‘They got together to protect themselves. At the time they were formed, there were lots of archaeological finds being dug up all over the world and some of them threatened to blow their religions out of the water. They couldn’t let that happen, so they formed a secret society to pool resources and work together to stop that from happening, and they had some success. A few significant finds were spirited away never to be seen again, along with some of the people who found them.’

  ‘Come on MacKenzie. You can’t be serious? There’s no way the Church would do away with people.’

  ‘Are you kidding, man? They’ve done it throughout history. Anyone who posed a threat was eliminated. Look at the poor women who were burned as witches during the Inquisition, or the Cathars of the twelfth and thirteenth century. They were wiped out because they threatened the establishment.’

  Zac had heard of the Cathars and the Inquisition was infamous. ‘Okay. But, there’s no way the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury are involved in murder.’

  ‘Not now. No! The Alliance isn’t an official body. The top people know it exists but have never been able to ferret them out; that’s assuming they want to, of course.’

  ‘So why did they get involved with the Patti find?’

  ‘Patti. That’s the babe. Adelina Patti. Well done, not so daft are you?’

  Zac laughed. ‘The diary was found in Madame Patti’s old castle. The man who found it was murdered, along with his niece - an old girlfriend of mine.’

  ‘Ah, sorry Zac. So that’s why you’re involved in it. You think this diary and the murders are linked?’

  ‘There’s no doubt. The pages on the disc are just the tip of the iceberg. If you’ll take a look at them and let me know what you think, I’ll get the rest of the stuff to you when we find the diary.’

  *

  Mariano MacKenzie joked that he had a right to feel mixed up. Being born to an Italian mother and Scottish father living in the Rhondda was all the reason anyone needed to be a bit confused. But Mariano was, in reality, far from being confused. He was smart. With an I.Q of 160, he was too smart for his school - and most of his teachers. Like many intelligent young men living in areas of low expectations, being bright didn’t save him from a kicking from time to time and certainly didn’t open any doors to a comfortable life.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and lobbed the tissue into a waste bin. Being just short of five-nine and slightly overweight, MacKenzie appeared to be out of shape, but that was far from the truth. Inside his council-owned semi-detached home was a bedroom full of gym equipment, but even though his cardiovascular fitness was above average his weight never seemed to change. Frowning into the full-length mirror, he stepped off his latest acquisition, a grand’s worth of vibration plate, and walked across the hall to his favourite room.

  The whole house was full of high-tech gadgetry, but The Bridge was the ultimate toy. Considering that the room was based on the layout of the Starship Enterprise, The Bridge was nothing like the original. Having squeezed in the main control desk there was little else he could fit into a ten-by-eight room. To complete the impression of starship technology, MacKenzie had Blu-Tacked and pasted posters and printouts bought or downloaded from the internet, though none of this extra “fluff” mattered to MacKenzie.

  The control desk was the centrepiece for good reason. It was packed with the latest computer technology. An iMac and top of the range Sony computer were embedded into homemade control panels and spliced into a fifty-two inch LCD monitor fixed into the blanked-off window recess. MacKenzie scratched his head. The diary pages had been easy to translate; any child could do it with help from the internet, but it was what the diary contained that excited him.

  Sitting down at the desk in his captain’s chair, he scrolled through some of his favourite conspiracy websites using the trackball mouse fixed into the armrest.

  Most of the websites speculated on the obligatory alien cover-ups, from what he saw as the certainties; the alien visitations and the murders of JFK and Marilyn Monroe, to the bizarre; such as an island to which Elvis, Lord Lucan and Michael Jackson had retired to - along with the racehorse Shergar.

  But MacKenzie’s favourite site was the one he’d created himself. It had taken him nearly two years to research, but that was nearly ten years ago. When it was finished, the site quickly became the leading authority on every conspiracy theory ever mooted with a connection to the Sphinx, receiving over four million hits in one month.

  The page he was searching for was lost in one of thousands of menu links. He typed Sphinx into the search box and pressed return. Within a second, over a hundred links appeared, all with some connection, however tenuous. A dozen or so pages were dedicated to the idea that a secret chamber existed beneath the Sphinx. MacKenzie nodded. Although he had an excellent memory, there was so much information on the site that it was impossible to remember it all, even for someone like himself.

  That was interesting. He read the header again. "Edgar Cayce - the Sleeping Prophet and the Hall of Records." MacKenzie scanned the page quickly. It was all coming back to him. Cayce was an early twentieth century prophet. He’d claimed he could heal and receive visions during a hypnotic trance. One of his famous visions was of the Sphinx being linked to the people of Atlantis. But that wasn’t all; he also claimed that the secret chamber beneath the monument contained the records of human existence from the earliest times. He even went on to suggest the place had links to Noah’s flood. One entry made MacKenzie stop. He couldn’t remember writing the article. It must be one of the many he had downloaded at some time in the past? He checked the bottom for the citation. It was indeed an external link. He clicked the blue text and poured a coffee from his percolator. The page took longer than usual to load, and when it slowly revealed its contents, MacKenzie’s X-Files coffee mug began to shake.

  CHAPTER 26

  Zac waved as the large black man of Jamaican origin stepped down from the train.

  Gates smiled broadly as he hefted his heavy holdall over his impossibly wide shoulders. Standing at over six foot three, Gates was a formidable figure of a man. The two friends embraced.

  ‘Great to see you man,’ said Gates. ‘Don’t hear from you in over five years and only get a call when you need me to save your sorry arse.’

  Zac laughed. ‘Yeah, well you must know what it’s like because I don’t recall you giving me a call either.’

  Gates smiled. ‘Touché! So, what’s all this bollocks about?’

  ‘All in good time. Fancy a pint? I’ll fill you in on events over a beer.’ Gates nodded.

  ‘By the way,’ continued Zac. ‘Did you bring the gear?’ Gates dropped the bag off his shoulder. ‘Don’t think I carry heavy jim-jams, do you?’

  Zac patted Gates on the back. ‘Great. I knew you’d come through for me.’

  The two men crossed the road from the station and walked the hundred yards or so to the Adam and Eve pub. Zac ordered the beers as Gates admired the oddities around the bar. ‘Strange shit!’

  ‘It’s something of a tradition. This is my old haunt. The place fills up with coppers later on in the evening.’

  ‘Can’t say I’d be keen to experience that particular delight.’

  Zac laughed. ‘Never one for socialising with colleagues...’

  ‘Never saw the point when there were thousands of lovely ladies to accompany to the boozer. So what is it with all this pickled shit?’

  Zac took a sip of his b
eer and led Gates to a table. ‘Started about seventy years ago during the blitz.’

  Gates shook his head as he surveyed the various body parts he recognised, preserved in formaldehyde. ‘Even Damien Hirst would feel uncomfortable in here.’

  Zac drank some more of his Guinness and began to recount the events of the last few days. ‘So, you think the plane was sabotaged?’

  I don’t honestly know,’ said Zac. ‘All I know is that it’s bloody rare for oil to get into the fuel tank of an aircraft, unless it’s put there. There was no mechanical reason for it to happen. No reason the engineer could find. So I can only assume it got there through the fuel filler. If that’s the case, it must have been put there deliberately.’

  ‘I know nothing about planes and shit, but wouldn’t the oil affect the system on start up?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s something I can’t figure out. Why would it only affect the engine mid flight?’

  ‘Perhaps someone put a time-release wotsit in there?’

  That was a possibility. ‘How would that work? How could someone do that - might as well just drop an explosive into the tank – and boom!’

  ‘That would lead to complications in the investigation,’ explained Gates. ‘This way, it would just look like a cock-up or system failure.’

  ‘There’s also another complication,’ said Zac.

  Gates sighed. ‘Isn’t there always?’

  ‘There’s a woman involved. A colleague of Rachel's. I think she might be in danger. If they’ve tried to top me, then I think it’s safe to assume they’ll be going after her too. In fact, I think we need to pick her up and keep her close for a while.’

  Gates grinned. ‘Is she a “looker?’”

  ‘I suppose so. Can’t say I noticed,’ he lied.

  Gates laughed. ‘Oh no? Not like the Zac Woods I used to know.’

  ‘That was many years ago. I’ve calmed down a lot since then. I’m a virtual monk.’

  ‘And I’m a virtual Pope,’ chuckled Gates. He slurped his pint of lager. ‘Whatever! If someone is trying to kill you both they’ll have a hard time doing it with the shit I’ve brought for you.’ He patted the holdall.

  Zac made a quick survey of the bar to make sure no one could hear them. ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Two MP5-K’s and a couple of nine-millimetre Glocks - that should provide a little discouragement for anyone.’

  Zac nodded his head. ‘Bit like old times, then?’

  Gates smiled and held up his hand for a high-five. ‘Shit - yeah!’

  CHAPTER 27

  The five men sat at a table in a MacDonald’s opposite the South Wales Police headquarters in Bridgend on the instructions of the man called Holder. Hassan was not happy. ‘I suppose you think this is fucking funny? We’re right opposite the police H.Q. Couldn’t you be a little more subtle?’

  Holder smiled, as if he was a father humouring his silly child. ‘Where better to meet? No one would ever expect an illegal conspiracy to take place under the noses of the police.’

  ‘Shh, please!’ Giuseppe’s head nervously darted like a scared chicken. ‘We must be discreet.’

  Holder shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘I told you to leave this to me.’

  Giuseppe spoke again. ‘We understand that other parties have become increasingly aware of the objects. We need to ensure that we get to them first. The recent murders are obviously connected somehow, and we are getting concerned that the police will soon find the link.’

  ‘There is no need to worry about that. I have it all under control. It’s true that there have been some clumsy interventions, but you can take it from me that I will do things right. I have contacts and inside information that will keep us one step ahead. All I want from you is for you to stay out of the operational side of things. Just ensure the money is available when I need it.’

  Holder had said all he needed to say. He was getting a little pissed with these fools. They wanted to recover the objects at all cost but then wanted to pretend they had no control over the inevitable consequences when dealing with professionals.

  Holder walked the mile to the railway station. He never used a car that could be traced back to him. It was always better to be anonymous, and the train was the best way to ensure that.

  *

  The four remaining men finished their drinks.

  ‘We need to ensure there is a backup plan. I do not trust him,’ said the Italian.

  ‘I think you must have faith, my friend,’ Hassan implored. We cannot do anything to jeopardise the operation.’

  ‘I know, but I do not trust him.’

  ‘We have no other option. We cannot get directly involved. We need the relics found and secured for us. If they fall into the hands of the others I shudder to think what will become of us all, and of our people. There are billions depending on us, and we cannot let them down.’

  ‘That’s why I want a backup, a contingency. We cannot let something so momentous rest in the hands of a...a...mercenary.’ Giuseppe spat the word out like a bad taste.

  ‘Whom would we get to intervene?’ Hassan enquired.

  ‘In my country there are lots of people who would do anything for the Church - and a suitcase of money,’ the Italian smiled.

  The Asian shook his head. ‘I cannot sanction this - neither can you. You know we would have to go back to the council and have them make the decision.’

  ‘But that could take too long,’ Giuseppe protested.

  The man in the leather jacket had heard enough. ‘No more! We do as we are told. The orders are from a greater power than we could ever imagine. We have to obey.’

  ‘It’s okay for you, Malcolm,’ Giuseppe moaned. ‘We have far more at stake in this than you.’

  Malcolm’s face turned red. ‘More at stake? I fail to see where you get that. If these relics are discovered and exposed, we are all finished. It won’t matter how much we protest that they are fakes...the wheels of destruction will be in motion, and ALL organised religions founded on the Book of Genesis will be ridiculed and discounted. Can you imagine the uproar? Two thousand years of faith and trust washed away overnight.’

  ‘Two thousand? You can double that for my people,’ Abraham interjected.

  ‘But that is why I feel we must ensure this man Holder does not fail us.’

  ‘He will not fail us,’ Hassan assured. ‘He has inside information, which will keep us all ahead of the race. For now, we must wait.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Handel Fenwick walked along the dock at Symonds Yat kicking loose stones from the concrete paving into the calm water below.

  His own boat stood out amongst the narrow boats and small cruisers tied to the bank. The boat had cost a fortune, but he could afford it. If only Stella had lived to see it. They had planned to see so much of the world together.

  Fenwick crossed the gangplank and unlocked the galley door.

  A loose sheaf of notepaper sat on the table alongside the disc. Coffee from the percolator hissed as it trickled into the pot. A caffeine hit was urgently needed. Collapsing into a leather settee near the open door, he wondered what he should do next.

  The pages from the diary didn’t make sense. He read the notes again. It was clear that the objects were brought to Wales and hidden near the singer's home. That much he was certain of. But Patti obviously didn’t want anyone to know where.

  The legend had to be true. The diary must be found quickly. Whatever was written on the rest of the pages could well unlock the location of the objects they were all looking for and he was now sure that those objects were priceless.

  *

  Piles of paper littered the floor of MacKenzie’s bridge. Captain Kirk would never have allowed his starship to be so untidy, but MacKenzie was too enthralled by what he’d found to care.

  The fifty-inch computer screen flashed up page after page of information, all of which had been dismissed as nonsense by the so-called experts, but MacKenzie was certain they were wrong and that it was all
true.

  Dozens of files were dragged onto his memory stick leaving just two open.

  MacKenzie created another folder on the stick and dropped the last two pages into it with a confirmatory click. He sat for a moment, wondering what to write as a label for the folder.

  He sat back in his captain’s chair and smiled. He could feel the excitement rising inside him. He punched the air. ‘Fucking yahoo!’

  Whistling the theme from Star Trek as the computer screen switched to the star-field screensaver, he finally typed the words. The Eden Relics.

  CHAPTER 29

  The room was large, and the old stone walls were draped with twelve tapestries depicting scenes from the Stations of the Cross. The coloured stitching was still vibrant after decades in the windowless room. He would have to treat the drapes for the spots of mould that seemed to penetrate everything below ground.

  This cellar, unlike the one leading into it, had never been used for storing wine. A large stone carved crucifix stood against the far wall and an equally large stone altar the size of a dining table, stood before that. A purple altar cloth was draped across the top of the altar, and a silver chalice had been left in the centre.

  Farrell walked over to the altar and knelt before it. He crossed himself and removed a miniature bottle of red wine from his coat pocket and began a ritual he had performed countless times for others. He poured the wine into the chalice and closed his eyes in silent prayer. Having drunk the wine, and wiping the remains clean with a handkerchief, he placed the chalice onto the floor. Next, he whipped the cloth off the altar in a flurry of dust, folded it precisely, and placed it next to the cup.

  A hardwood cover had been cut to fit precisely into a recess in the top of the stone altar. Farrell removed the board and took a small flashlight from his pocket. He shone the light down into the deep hole. A rusty iron ladder led down into the darkness.