The Nephilim Protocol

by Stuart Killbourn

  “He gave you nuclear weapons.”

  “He gave us the means to protect ourselves. We were hunted down like vermin. Don't you see? You, yourself, are so caught up in it that you can't see it. You want what we have but you don't want who we are. No one wanted what we are. No one ever wanted us.”

  “I don't know why you think we are so different,” said Julia darkly. Then, with abrupt change of tone, she asked curiously, “Why did you come here?” Omar tilted his head and became suddenly lost in thought.

  “You have something I want,” Omar looked a bit sheepish when he heard his own words.

  “So you now you want something we have,” taunted Julia.

  “Actually, you, Julia, have something that I want.” Omar stood and looked at Julia with his head slightly bowed. It seemed like a confession.

  “Me?” said Julia with amazement. “What do I have that you could want? I have nothing. None of us have anything whatsoever – me least of all!” Omar hesitated. His hand covered his brow and eyes. Omar turned away and paced up and down. He began to laugh.

  “What?” said Julia. She felt annoyance rising. “What's so funny?” Omar continued to laugh uncontrollably. He bent double and tears began flowing. Julia was riled that she wanted to laugh as well but that was unforgivable. She slapped Omar across the back. “Stop it!” Omar simply laughed all the more until Julia could not help but laugh as well. It was insane but she could not help it. At last, they stopped and looked at each other. Julia held Omar on both shoulders. “Don't speak. It would kill me.” She placed her finger on his lips. Julia was terrified by where they were now. This was the cusp. This was a line that, if crossed, would change everything forever. It was the point of no return but this was not the time. Julia needed safety. Her comfort zone, as miserable as it was, held her captive – at least for the moment. Omar looked about to speak but Julia shook her head and backed off toward the door. She turned and dived out the room.

  It seemed that the cooler air outside brought a sense of reality and relief. Julia paused and leaned back against the wall and breathed deeply. She was feeling dizzy. She could barely track the situation in her mind as to how they careered from contention to desire. It had been a roller coaster. Julia needed time to think, time to assimilate. Julia pushed away from the wall and headed to the decontamination room and back to her quarters. How much longer could she resist? How many more times could she dismiss her emotions? It would not be long – a few more days perhaps – and the anticipation filled her with both excitement and gnawing apprehension.

  Chapter 35

  National Secure Archive Facility

  Julia searched for newspaper articles concerning Armando de Sousa. There were many. She cross-referenced them with Beirut – that was where Omar lived. She was surprised to find several that described an assassination attempt. The front page of the Beirut Times had a picture of President de Sousa outside the City Hospital. His face was full of righteous indignation. He was giving a press conference the following day. Julia scanned the article but read attentively Armando's words.

  The attempt on my life last evening is a despicable action by those seeking to continue the exploitation of Mozambique and oppose the establishment of a free and democratic society. I do not believe this was an internal act of tribalism or symptom of bitter division as some will attempt to portray it. Instead, I am quite convinced by the evidence before me that the responsibility lies with foreign colonial powers bent on destabilisation of Southern Africa in an attempt to reignite past conflicts and bloodshed that we, the people of Mozambique, have reconciled. I re-emphasise, this failed assassination was an attempt by foreign agents to strip Mozambicans of their dignity and birth right. I call forth the cowardly perpetrators to admit their guilt and face their shame. Let them know that the pen is mightier than the sword of colonial oppression.

  Although Julia could not contextualise the political rhetoric, she could recognise that, at face value, Armando was taking the moral high ground. Strangely, none of the articles she read suggested which foreign colonial powers might have been behind the assassination attempt. Reading the article further and checking other media sources, Julia learned that, as well as the assassins, there had been one other fatality: the daughter-in-law of Mozambique's Special Trade Ambassador. She was named as Melissa Williams – a young American. She was twenty-four years old. The family were devastated by her tragic death.

  In another, unrelated article that announced a visit to China, Mozambique's Special Trade Ambassador was named as one Doctor Campbell. At this, Julia's attention was sharply aroused. The implication was that Melissa was connected to James and might even be Omar's mother. At least Julia deduced this based on Doctor Campbell having only one son. But she immediately recognised an inconsistency: Omar claimed his mother was Persian not American. Julia decided to challenge Omar on this. First, she must dig deeper.

  As Julia found, scanned and sometimes read articles in-depth, she felt her feelings over the events were very clouded. President de Sousa had done much good for his country and genuinely seemed to desire peace and fairness. But opposing this new conclusion Julia had a whole life of instruction that said he was one of the Nephilim and he had purposed and planned the destruction of society. For the moment, she had lost touch with her heart. There were too many things that were unfamiliar and her personal connection to Omar compromised her objectivity. She was profoundly shocked that a young woman – much her own age – had been killed because of a connection to Doctor Campbell, to his son, possibly to Omar. This knowledge intensified her sense of danger regarding her relationship with Omar. She had already emotionally – but not yet mentally – decided to risk everything. Omar was challenging. He had expectations of Julia that she did not have for herself – no one had. She had lived in her own closed-in world full of fear and everyone else had been content to leave her there. How true it was: Julia had built her own little Ark and buried her emotions and ambitions in her own little hole. Omar placed the whole world before her and said walk with me. The thrill of it drew Julia in despite the uncertainty. Her heart told her she was in love with Omar but her head urged caution.

  Chapter 36

  National Secure Archive Facility

  Julia hesitated to broach the subject with Omar. She was not sure how he would react. There was only one way to find out and to get Omar's perspective.

  “I've been checking the archive...”

  “Checking up on me … and my family?” Omar's tone was jovial enough but that could mask something darker. Julia looked guilty.

  “Yes, if you like, I have. Wouldn't you?” Omar did not immediately respond so Julia continued, “Well, I was wondering if your mother's name was Melissa?”

  “Who?” Omar looked puzzled.

  “Melissa ... Williams?” Julia paused then felt she had to explain about the newspaper articles reporting the assassination attempt on Armando. As her recount of the story progressed, a look of comprehension came over Omar. He interrupted.

  “Uncle Armando talked about this once or twice. But I'm sure the girl who got shot was called Rachel. I've no idea who Melissa is … or was.”

  “Hmm, the girl named in the media reports was Melissa Williams. Your uncle held a press conference the next day to denounce foreign colonial powers for trying to kill him and destabilise Mozambique.”

  “That's not really what happened. But why would you think she was my mother?”

  “The report said Melissa was Doctor Campbell's daughter-in-law. And your father is Doctor Campbell's only son isn't he?”

  “Well yes, he is – his only natural son.”

  “I printed out the picture from the newspaper.” Julia offered a small grainy photograph of a young white woman with long dark hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. She was attractive and had dark eyes the same as Omar. He took the photograph and stared blankly at it then shook his head.

  “She isn't your mother, is she?” Omar laughed.

  “Look
at me! What do you see? Look at my skin!” Omar rolled up his sleeve to show his fore arm. It was darker than Julia – and everyone else's from the Ark.

  “It's dark because you've been on the surface, I suppose.” Julia knew immediately that her answer was weak and quite wrong.

  “It's dark because my mother is Asian. From Iran – or Persia as she prefers to call it. Tell me, is there anyone in the Ark who doesn't have white skin and blue eyes? Is there anyone who looks like my uncle, Armando? Do you have any black people? I've only seen a few people here – maybe six or seven – and they've all been white like you.” Julia was taken aback by this question. She had never contemplated the issue. She grew up in the Ark surrounded by white-skinned people and she did not question it. Omar pressed again, “Well, is there?”

  “No, there are no black people in the Ark. This is America – or used to be – and black people lived in Africa.” Another issue that was highly sensitive to Julia came to the fore suddenly. “Besides, no one else is like me. No one else has hair this colour. No one has red hair.” She felt a lifetime of tacit ostracism undermining her emotional strength. She heard her voice falter and choke. She felt tears forming.

  “My grandmother had red hair. I've seen photographs. She was extraordinarily beautiful. As are you, Julia.” Omar spoke softly and for the moment Julia blindly believed him and recovered her composure. Omar continued, “You would never know by looking at me, but I inherited the gene for red hair from her. I have one copy of the gene but, as you probably know, it is a recessive gene and the genes I inherited from my mother dominate. Only when someone inherits two copies of the gene for red hair – one from their father and another from their mother – do they have red hair. We have no red hair among us. As far as I know, Julia, you are the only person now living who has red hair. Among us, I am the only carrier of the gene. Half our children, Julia, would have red hair.” The final sentiment was too much for Julia to resolve in the current situation. It implied an assumption or a choice she was not ready to make. She changed the subject back.

  “Who is your mother? What was her name?”

  “My mother is a wonderful person. Her name is Zarina and she's very much alive. There was once that she flatly disobeyed my grandfather and tried to warn people that the Nakba was imminent, that politics would have to change. She tried to show a way forward. She wrote academic papers that described how it would all turn out. They refused to listen and they refused to publish. She would never have betrayed my grandfather but she disagreed with him and risked her life to try to warn people. She says she felt like Cassandra foretelling the fall of Troy but no one would believe her.”

  Julia noted another reference to Homer's Iliad. Was it significant? Was there something more to it than a passing mention? Julia had one final lose end in her mind.

  “And who was Rachel? Do you know?”

  “I believe Rachel was an Israeli agent who came to spy on us – my father that is.”

  “She wasn't Nephilim then?” Omar paused to consider as if he genuinely did not know.

  “No, I’m sure she wasn’t.”

  “And tell me more about your Uncle Armando. He sounds a remarkable man. How did he become President of Mozambique?”

  “People voted for him. Before the Nakba, people lived in vast nations and everyone voted for who should govern the country. Everyone had an equal say. It was called democracy. I'm guessing from the look on your face that it does not happen that way here?”

  “No, we have the Patriarch. Each department has a director. Somehow they choose our leader. We do not get a say. We are told that it has to be that way because the Ark is so important. We need good leadership – people who know what they are doing.” Julia shrugged her shoulders and added, “This is the Ark.”

  “Well anyway, Armando was the son of Doctor Campbell's most trusted friend but he was orphaned in the civil war and became a child soldier. Afterwards, Doctor Campbell searched for him and helped him – raised him as his own son. My Aunt Kate became Armando's girlfriend and, in time, they married. He is an excellent chess player and after winning several competitions he returned to Mozambique and entered politics. He is the best story teller amongst us and a very persuasive speaker. Despite his lack of years, he was able to sway enough of his countrymen to be elected president. I'm told he was very good at it and Mozambique prospered. He stood against corruption and exploitation. He wanted a fair deal.”

  “Is he one of the Nephilim?”

  “Yes, he was the first. Then Aunt Kate.”

  “Aunt Kate was Doctor Campbell's daughter, wasn't she?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  Chapter 37

  Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

  “Stop! Rewind a few seconds.” The President's voice was terse. The video footage of the failed assassination attempt on Doctor Campbell spun backwards and restarted. “Freeze!” The frozen frame filled the screen: a black African wielding a pistol was caught illuminated by light from a window above. “Who is that in the lower left? I recognise him. Who is he?” Gary examined the face and tried to dig out from the recesses of his mind a name. None came.

  “Some hired bodyguard. A good one admittedly.” The Chief of Staff dismissed.

  “Do you know who he is?” asked the President.

  “Suspect unknown.”

  “How deniable is this fiasco?” The President's tone was humourless and dark. “Do all black people look the same to you?”

  “No, sir. Of course not, Mister President.”

  “Go back to the start and let's see how much damage this is going to cause.”

  Gary breathed a sigh of relief. He felt out of his depth and very uncomfortable with what was happening. At least no one was asking him the difficult questions. He sat in the Presidential briefing trawling through a failed mission. There were lessons to be learned but, more importantly, Doctor Campbell was still out there and he almost certainly had nuclear assets. He was dangerous and needed to be dealt with but Gary had never contemplated the extremes of assassination.

  The footage started. It was jumpy and grainy. It was taken from a rooftop overlooking a house. It was late evening, a group of people sat round a table in the garden eating and laughing – perhaps a birthday party. It seemed just like an ordinary family. A car pulled up outside the house and three men stepped out and strode purposefully to the gate. They pushed it open forcefully. The three men were brandishing guns. Gary's stomached turned. This was not some Hollywood movie; these were real people, real guns, real killings.

  The family rose from the table and were forced against the wall of the house. Glasses were dropped and shattered. One of the men resisted and was brutally struck to the ground. Demands were shouted for money, for valuables. An older man – Gary recognised as Doctor Campbell – spoke calmly.

  “Go into the house. Search as much as you like. We have little of value. But please do not harm my family.” It was a very dignified performance. He turned to his family and said, “Please do not resist, these men will not harm you.” One of the attackers raised his gun towards Doctor Campbell's head threatening to shot. Moments passed before Doctor Campbell responded, “You may kill me but my children already have their inheritance and you cannot take it from them.” To Gary these words were very odd. They made no sense whatsoever spoken to violent robbers. Gary formed a suspicion that they were intended as a warning for himself and the others in his present company – thousands of miles away at the end of an audio-video link. The words were for the President. Gary could only guess at what that meant.

  The rest of the footage played out in a blur. A young woman pushed herself between the attacker and Doctor Campbell. A shot rang out. The tall black man, standing at the edge of the group lunged at the nearest armed man and inserted what looked like a pen into his right eyeball. The gunman's hands grabbed his head and he screamed in pain. The tall black man grappled him and his pistol was directed at the third assassin. Another shot was he
ard and the assassin fell. The young woman fell into Doctor Campbell's arms, blood rapidly staining her white blouse. The attacker hesitated. A short girl with long black hair kicked the gun aside using a kung fu move. Being disarmed and with both his accomplices down, the last attacker panicked, turned and fled. The tall black man pursued him and caught him near the gate his hands clamped around his head. With a brutal twist, the final attacker went limp. The tall black man looked up and his face was captured in the frame in the pose where the President had frozen the footage.

  “Freeze. Let me get straight. You sent in three local goons to shoot Doctor Campbell in a botched robbery of his home in Beirut. Instead all three goons were themselves killed by the body guard – the tall African – and you have no idea who he is?”

  “That's quite a simplification but essentially, yes. We'll interrogate him when the local police bring him in.”

  “The local police can't touch him.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you know who Armando de Sousa is?” The Chief of Staff did not reply. “Anyone? Armando de Sousa?”

  Gary wheezed as he knew the answer and now recognised the face. “Armando de Sousa is the President of Mozambique. He has been rousing African Union nations to resist exploitation of natural resources and food production by foreign companies. Quite a thorn in the flesh in some quarters. He also won the US chess open aged nineteen.”

  “And now it looks like we just tried to assassinate him!”

  “Who is the victim – the young lady?” demanded the President.

  “A casualty with a gunshot wound was admitted to Beirut City Hospital half-an-hour later. The patient matched the description from the footage we have just watched. She was carrying an American passport identifying her as Melissa Williams.”

  “So, your botched assassination resulted in the death of an American citizen?”