The Resurrectionist

by Jackson, Gil

  ‘The Order of the Most Divine Third Circle became the natural home for his belief in his theory of a triple helix and one which was not, they said, a million miles away from their philosophy. The Brother told him that he would be given the chance to witness the divinity first hand through the Order. To sit not with God, but to converse with him on matters scientific. The confronting of an entity by means of an angel — as the Jew, Jesus of Nazareth was — would be the key. The downside was that, for that to happen a catalyst would be needed. Satan’s representative on Earth!

  ‘Paul never saw the young mathematician again; he handed all he knew of the good professor to his bosses upstairs; resuming his duties at administrative (annexe ii-38) section pen.gov — in red lettering; leaving the good professor to become an unwitting servant of an organisation dangerous in the extreme.

  ‘He involved himself with an organisation that, to my mind, preached scientific nonsense to those that wanted a shortcut to a proper understanding of established thinking.’ Georgos went on. ‘It wasn’t that I was completely against the man’s views you understand. You got to keep an open mind. It was that — that made me mention that perhaps he could be wrong — I told him: “You’ve been ill, haven’t you ...?” But he turned on me, called me an obscurantist, said I was the same as those Philistines that had dismissed him and his theories from the university.’

  Georgos went on uninterrupted. ‘For my part I was concerned by this Circle using scientific methods for proving the existence of God. If there was ever such nonsense.’

  ‘You don’t believe?’ Charlie said to him rather surprised that someone of his leanings should doubt the existence of an Almighty.

  ‘Yes, of course, but it can’t be that simple, Charlie. Do you?’

  Charlie shrugged for a reply.

  ‘Religion’s still — for all the writings on the subject and God knows I’ve read some — no more than an unsubstantiated idea. For scientific evidence like Professor Paul’s posturing would need to be quantified; based on resulted scientific research carried out over a period of time that would be acceptable to a scientific world hardly likely. Whereas what he had were theories that couldn’t be evaluated scientifically, and were served up as gospel – if you’ll excuse the pun. And like I said unlikely ever to be anything else. If God didn’t exist, we’d have to....’

  ‘Invent Him, yes ... And what were they, these theories of his?’ Charlie went on.

  ‘Nothing of any significance, a load of rubbish more or less on the lines that he’d been arguing with me on. Oh yes, someone had to be killed because of their views and crimes against humanity, children in the main, that could prevent man’s own salvation, apparently. I tell you the man’s a mess!’

  ‘Did he say who this someone was?’

  ‘Ocean International? I ask you, Ocean International. Like he’d plucked a name out of thin air and arrived at that one for want of any other. To my mind he could have plumped for Donald Duck it would have been no less ridiculous.’

  ‘And no other reason for killing him than what you’ve told me?’

  ‘Not that I know of. And like I said, the only reason that I’ve come to the FBI is that he’s still a friend of mine that in his current frame of mind is like as not going out to kill someone for someone else’s twisted benefit.’

  Charlie pondered the response. ‘Strange, that someone could be persuaded to kill someone for such tenuous reasons.’

  * * *

  Charlie duly reported back to Director Nathan Lomax his findings; was thanked and heard no more until Sarah Weinberg happened to mention while they were having dinner; and after Charlie had settled down to a whiskey and cigar; that David was to go to Mexico on Bureau business. He looked mildly surprised that David hadn’t mentioned it to him. He changed his expression before saying, ‘Nice there this time of year.’

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 9 – 1950

  Professor Angus Paul had the latest equipment available to carry out his task. Two Siebe Gorman air-tanks with a combined capacity of eighty cubic feet of compressed air. Attached to the manifold holding them together: a Merlin two-stage, twin-hose demand valve complete with contents gauge reading 120 atmospheres. Beneath the web strapping of the bottles he carried a pure oxygen re-breather system with silica gel filters.

  He’d calculated: the average person breathes one cubic foot of air a minute, that would give him a theoretical eighty minutes of breathing time below the surface of the water, half that at thirty-three feet. He would be exerting himself. That would give him half an hour to make the out and back crossing of the bay to Frederik Spannocs’s yacht.

  Lying half a mile out in the bay he would have to stay on the surface for as long as possible to conserve his air; his loaded weight belt keeping him low in the water; he would need a snorkel.

  He would enter the water at 19.30 hours, which, according to the Brother, would afford him the best window of opportunity for his operation. Spannocs conducts his business by radio telephone at this time of the day, while his crew, run ashore; leaving no more than a skeleton watch. The mine would be attached under the main fuel tanks two-thirds down its length. This would incinerate every living thing on board at detonation. A time delay would give him — not plenty — but enough time to get clear. And to give him a buzz on the home run, but not enough time for any discovery to be made and rectified. Not that they could do anything much about him if they knew he was under the yacht. Being wooden hulled, if they tried to depth charge him the shock waves would blow the nails right out of her.

  * * *

  Frederik Spannocs, awaiting a call, had gone out on deck to enjoy the warmth of the evening. Finding less hassle and any embarrassment of knowing too many people in American society he had decided that living on board, with the occasional run ashore to his home in San y los Amado, was the best way to run his debauched operation. Latin American jungles were well placed to dispose the detritus of young human suffering.

  Sucking on a huge Havana he became distracted by his long-serving friend pointing to the sweep hand of his chronograph, the yacht was blown completely out from under his, and the feet of everyone else on her decks and below.

  The sky lit to daylight luminosity with the heat and flash from the explosion. The sea boiled and took to itself the splintered remains of structure and bodies. Twenty minutes’ later Professor Angus Paul came ashore gasping for breath, a job well done; and as good as any that he’d achieved at Omaha in 1945.

  Since his anger was apt to bring out the worst of him, Tony was an ideal representative for his alter ego - in many ways. Thanks to Spannocs he had strength and combat skills; and was ruthlessly efficient in both; but that was not where his main strength was. What had kept Spannocs to him was the fact that he showed no outward sign of his previous attributes. Now, the new, Tony Di Sotto, well educated and with superb locution; tall with an effeminate charm. Spannocs liked the contrast. That he was trustworthy was never in doubt, as well as loyal and dedicated to Spannocs as he had been to Giuseppi; and protected him with a jealous zeal to anybody that got within a mile of him. You could say, love would not have been too strong a word, if his understanding of the word among ordinary mortals as he once remembered.

  Tony approached him his watch arm at his side. ‘Sir, Mr. Beagle sends his compliments and wishes to inform you that he’s detected some underwater activity heading this way.’

  Frederik Spannocs looked at him, went through the process of consideration without having to know any more details, for the moment, what was to happen, had happened. He would need to shift to up a multiverse. Taking a slow draw on his Havana, drew in deeply, spoke the smoke from his lungs. ‘Inform Mr. Beagle permission to carry on has been granted, Tony.’

  Tony nodded his head in a sideways salutary manner, turned smartly on deck pump heels and walked away. Spannocs resumed his position at the rail of his yacht to reconsider his cigar.

  Five minutes’ later an Avon inflatable swept away from the boat,
Aquataine; and with its bow lifting and dropping, accelerated up to eighteen knots, its hull beating a dent hollow sound of time to the 50-horse Mercury outboard engine that was pushing across the waves until, a quarter mile away, its engine settled to a sedate tick-over. The yacht’s coxswain, Mr. Beagle, could be clearly seen patrolling the surface with an echo-sounder through the outboard’s exhaust smoke. After a time the inflatable moved off, stopping again after fifty yards where the whole operation was repeated. Three more times the coxswain did this until he was satisfied.

  Frederik watched Mr. Beagle drop something over the side of the Avon and waited. From across the bay a boinging sound echoed, followed, a few seconds later by a plume of water that went skywards showering him and the inflatable. Twice more he dropped miniature depth charges from the back of the inflatable while manoeuvring the inflatable skilfully in a circle: the tiller between his legs; with the boat tilted into an angle that only centrifugal force kept him from falling from. Satisfied at last he stopped the inflatable, leaned over the side and retrieved the spoils from the water. Dropping them into the inflatable he accelerated one last time bringing the inflatable round and returning to the Aquataine.

  Frederik was still looking out to sea when Tony gently coughed, drawing his attention. He turned. In his hand, Tony, held a silver tray a tumbler half filled with blue liquid.

  ‘Your after eight, sir.’

  Frederik began sucking strongly and quickly on his Havana, pulled the red hot end off, held his head back and dropped it neatly down his throat. Taking up the glass from Tony poured the absinthe after it, swallowed hard. Opened his mouth, he eructated a blue flame which extinguished turning to a wisp of smoke. He replaced the empty tumbler on the tray. Tony held out a lighter, thumb grinded a flame and re-lighted Spannocs’s cigar.

  ‘Mr. Beagle recovered two air-tanks, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Tony, send Mr. Beagle my compliments on a job well done. The Order of the Most Divine Third Circle has found me, Tony.’

  ‘Yes sir. Will that be all, sir?’

  Frederik turned back towards the sea continuing to draw on his cigar, removing it from his mouth said slowly. ‘For the moment, Tony ... for the moment.’

  Tony Di Sotto smiled. Looked at his chronograph and thought he noticed the sweep of the second hand stop. His smile disappeared, returning again at this apparent apparition.

  ‘Everything in order, Tony?’

  ‘Yes sir, I think so, sir.... Yes, everything’s in order.’

  ‘Very good. Goodnight, Tony,’ Spannocs replied looking back out to sea barely whispering to himself, ‘Now.... That’s Magic!’

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 10 – 1950

  David Weinberg contacted Internal Revenue and asked for a list of the people that were involved with Ocean International. If Dr. Georgos had told Charlie, and relayed to Franklin Lomax right: that the organization that Paul had been persuaded to risk his life — if not Ocean itself, and more a person coincidentally connected with it — a few names from that list could be thrown up that might be familiar to Charlie.

  As for Internal Revenue, they were more than eager to assist the FBI. After all if they were investigating a company it would mean malpractice and malpractice would mean loose dollars sloshing around, loose dollars sloshing around meant tax hadn’t been paid. At least it did to Gerry Duke. Twenty-five and as keen as mustard. David liked him and Gerry for his part clung to David like a limpet.

  This would be a coup as far as he was concerned. An unofficial inquiry from an agent of the FBI who admitted as much, well he thought, this could be the friendship of a lifetime. The scratching of backs was as important to him as it was between corporate businesses: he had learned that lesson early in life.

  He felt ease with him using his Christian name which suited David. When you want something and the man, though he’s never met you starts to do that you just know he’s going to be super cooperative.

  ‘Is he actively corporate or a sleeper?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea ...’

  ‘It’s that, it could take a little time to dig into everyone that’s involved with a company that size. They have so many strands in their web to avoid tax, I don’t want some law suit against me for making sweeping statements that are not right, it’s sometimes necessary to pick them over with a needle.’

  ‘Yeh, I quite understand, but if that’s the case you’d better give that list of everyone that’s not directly involved, can you do that?’

  ‘You boys don’t want much do you. Give me a day I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry.’

  * * *

  The following day he got a call back from Gerry who immediately apologised for taking so long.

  ‘I’ve a list; it’s long. Over four hundred names.’

  ‘My life!’

  ‘What did you expect with a company of its status - it does include all their subsidiary companies, though.’

  ‘OK, Gerry thanks. Could you send it to me here?’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘CONFIDENTIAL?’

  ‘Only joking, I’ll send it straight over.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry. Anything I can do for?’

  ‘Yes, you can get me a job with the FBI.’

  The following day the list turned up as Gerry promised and David arranged to go through it with Charlie who to his surprise was more intrigued than he imagined.

  ‘Well?’ David asked after what seemed like hours.

  Charlie looked up and looked down again, he was not to be hurried. David continued looking at the wallpaper and was about to count the fleurs-de-lis horizontally for the fifth time when Charlie spoke.

  ‘Can you pour me a glass of whiskey, will yer?’

  David sighed, went to the drinks cabinet, dispensed two glasses and returned with them.

  ‘Now this name is interesting.’

  David leant across him and looked to where he was pointing. It was the name of Tony Di Sotto.

  ‘He was one of Marco Giuseppi’s henchmen when me and your father was trying to track them down.’

  ‘He’s a bit old isn’t he. You did say that was 1916 didn’t you? How old would that make him now?’

  ‘Thanks very much. Same as Guiseppe, if you don’t mind, about twenty-six. He’d only be sixty now. Not unusual for someone these days you know.’

  ‘Sorry didn’t mean anything in it. I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s a lead, David.’

  ‘No one else you recognise?’

  Charlie looked again. ‘I don’t need to dig any deeper. See if you can find out more about him that might throw some light on the proceedings.’

  * * *

  It took David three days to discover that Di Sotto’s name was on an FBI file of informant’s ref alongside another. (See Seager) His father’s case. As to the present there was nothing. He obtained the Seager file and all references to Weinberg. The other, Philip Maddox, was a name without a past or a future, apart from his employment at the New York City hall during the inquiry. When David delved into employment records there was nothing that linked him with any kind of an interview or who gave him his job, he worked there with no question of how.

  David found it weird going over the details of his father’s bust on a club with the name Tinkerboys. He had hoped that some reason for his death might have come to light, but apart from the name of Di Sotto, he could see that it would not. As for Maddox being responsible, the man had the perfect alibi: held in police custody at the time. So what was he doing on the payroll of Ocean International? A quick check with Gerry Duke revealed nothing more than minder (unpaid); no address. Ocean was no more helpful, pleasant enough, but they said they hadn’t heard of him. They agreed the name could be on a list, but like a lot of advisors he was probably being used by an executive who paid the man from his own budget, so he wouldn’t appear. It was company policy that all contributors to the company by way of an employee were registered by name and nothing
else.

  ‘Was it possible to trace the executive?’ David asked the woman.

  ‘It might be it might not, depends if the executive in question wants it known; they’re a close lot you know, jealous of their advisors, Mr. Weinberg. It may take some time; I’ll see what I can do. You’ll need to send me the court order on corporate disclosure before I do.’

  ‘I’ll have it with you in the morning.’

  * * *

  What came back from Ocean International gave David what they had been looking for, but was of little use.

  ‘That’s strange. Why should Di Sotto’s name still be on the company list if the executive was dead?’ Charlie said.

  ‘She said it had either been overlooked or another executive had taken up his credentials. The fact that he had died in 1916, it was likely that he had been overlooked and she would take steps to remove him.’

  ‘So, who was the executive? Does it say?’

  David read on silently, ‘Marco Giuseppe!’ He looked up, then as quickly returned to the page. ‘Ring any bells? Deceased it says here.’

  ‘By the king of the leprechauns, the man’s cocked-up, we’ve found him, so we have.’

  ‘But it says he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead! Fooking dead! I don’t think so. Get Tony Di Sotto and I think you’ll find a man called Marco Giuseppi.’

  ‘Your old adversary, you reckon? What was all that, you never did say?’

  Charlie became black serious. He told David the story of he and his father’s involvement in child abuse and the man responsible. Of how they had been promoted out of the police department and their advancement to the old FBI for their work. And added his and his mother’s concerns for David inasmuch as Giuseppi had had a vendetta against them and let his mother know of it; for that reason she was against him following his father’s footsteps; and how he had reassured her that it was unlikely that Giuseppi would keep up his threats after all that time; and if he did, David would be best placed within the FBI to know of any threats.