Steve made a quick call to both of them. He paid thousands of dollars in bribes over the past two months to tin pushers who worked at both control towers. Neither had any commercial jets flying out today, but Mount Pleasant had a privately owned Gulfstream G650 that was booked to fly out today.
“Where’s it headed?” he asked.
“They’ve filed for a direct flight to Rome, Italy.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
*
It was impossible for Steve to get a flight for another forty-eight hours. The man who’d hired him was going to be pissed off, but what could he do about it? There weren’t any flights arriving, let alone leaving before then.
He quickly made a call to some agents in New York. They were booked on the next flight to Rome and would be there with plenty of time to prepare for their guest. Steve wished he was able to be there in person. The last thing he needed was for his team to lose the guy. It was all over if they stuffed it up.
Steve looked at his phone – do I make the call now? He decided not to. His job was to get the information. Find out who the guy was and where he came from and then pass it on. The person who’d taken out the contract told him under no uncertain terms that once the man from the hidden tunnel had been located he would deal with it on his own.
It would take him nearly two days using the necessary stop overs of commercial flights to reach Rome from the Falkland Islands. It took the man he’d been paid to locate just nine hours by private jet.
Ten hours after he watched the Gulfstream G650 take off, Steve received a phone call from his second in command in Rome. “Tell me you have him!”
“Relax. We’ve got him, but I’m not sure you’re gonna like where he went.”
Steve listened to the whole story. His mouth was incredibly dry, and his mind blank. At the end of the story he hung up and swore several times. The sort of curses that’d make a hooker blush. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Steve didn’t have a clue. So he dialed the number.
The man on the other end of the line answered before the second ring. “Tell me you have something for me?”
Steve took a deep breath and began his report, keeping to the facts and specifics only. “Mr. Reilly. I have video footage of the man who entered the ancient tunnel inside the blow hole in Port Stephens. He took a direct flight to Rome by private jet. The jet was leased by a company that specializes in corporate and elite air transport. Once there, he was picked up by a private taxi and taken to the Vatican. He was immediately greeted by the Swiss guards, who all recognized him on sight. From there he approached the private chambers, where the Pope came out to greet him individually. A moment later he disappeared into the vault. My team has set up a surveillance surrounding the Vatican. When he leaves, we’ll know where he’s going.”
“Thank you, Steve.” Mr. Reilly said. His voice, cold and unemotional. “Do you know his name?”
“He flew under a passport issued by the Vatican, but it doesn’t sound like a real name.”
“What is it?”
“Testimonium Architectus.”
“Witness to the Builders,” Sam translated the Latin words. “Forget about the surveillance. I will deal with it from here. Send your completed invoice, including additional expenses for your team’s travel to Rome. You’ll be paid in full. I’ve been very happy with your services, but they are now no longer required.”
*
Sam ended the cell call. His eyes no longer drifting out of the bridge of the Maria Helena towards the open ocean. “Elise, get me the live video feed from inside the blow hole.”
Elise tapped on her keyboard and the dark image of the secret room became displayed. “There you go.”
“I want lighting so I can see it!” he demanded, urgently.
“Coming up.”
The background light made the secret alcove come alive. It was empty except for the book, which had been left open two months earlier, when he and Tom had found the place. Hidden inside a secret obsidian chamber at the end of an ancient blowhole on West Falkland Island, was a book which documented the major events in a history that spanned more than two thousand years of history. There was no way Sam could read what had been recently added to the book.
“Tell me you can zoom in close enough to read the latest entry in the book,” Sam said.
“I’ll try.” Elise zoomed in until the newly written words were clearly visible.
Sam read the words out loud, “The Book of Nostradamus has been found.”
The End
The Nostradamus Equation
Prologue
Desert of Barbary 1562 (Modern Day Sahara, Africa)
It had been nearly ten days since his master had taken him to this barbaric and hostile land. Day after day, their small group of devout followers, slaves, and pious men had followed him into the inland sea of burning sand. It was the hottest, driest and most vile place Jacob Prediox had ever seen in his eleven years on earth. Ravaged by Portuguese pirates, Arab slave traders, Muslim conquests and black-skinned natives, who would have been only too eager to take white slaves, the land was fraught with danger. Without soldiers for protection, local navigators, or any knowledge of where they might make provisions of water or food, the small party had entered the vast desert in search of an unknown miracle.
They had done so because his master, Michel de Nostradamus, had told them he had seen the outcome of their grand expedition. It had been written on the ancient scrolls of time that he and his men were to complete a great mission; the greatest of all. It was to be conducted in secret and not one of them, including his master, would live to see the fruits of their efforts. But one their efforts would save the world. Nostradamus had told them all there was no reason to fear their great passage into an unknown land for a purpose that was far more important than any of their own lives.
And they had followed him, without fear – after all, what is there to fear when your future has already been? There is nothing that can be changed. It has already taken place. We are all merely puppets performing for the amusement of a far greater master.
On the tenth day, Jacob stopped. He was so dehydrated his tongue had become coated white and cracked. It had been nearly two days since the last of their water supply had run dry. They had reached yet another crest in the never ending giant sea of sand. He’d prayed with all his faith that on the other side would be a land so green and filled with fruit and water that it might actually be Eden. Instead, he witnessed row upon row of sandy waves, reaching all the way to the horizon. The sun was lowering and he wondered how many of the party would still be alive when it rose again.
Nostradamus stopped. “We’ll make camp here for the night.”
The camel train halted. The camel-puller rounded the head camel, leading the group together. He stopped next to Nostradamus. “Are you sure you want to make camp, master? I’m certain the camels have a few hours more in them in – and I doubt many of the men will be alive in the morning if we don’t find water.”
“Quite certain,” Nostradamus replied. His eyes searched the sand with recognition. “This is definitely the place.”
The camel-puller looked at the rows of sand dunes. The location was badly unprotected from the violent winds known to start without warning within the Desert of Barbary. “If you don’t mind me asking, master – this is the place for what?”
Nostradamus smiled. It was full of omnipotence and mystery. “This is precisely the place we make camp tonight, that’s all.”
Jacob looked up at his master who’d stopped next to him. His master suddenly looked down at him and asked, “Why do you look so sad, child?”
“Master,” he said, trying to appear brave. “I live only to serve you, but my tongue is dry, my stomach empty, and I fear the death I am only too certain is very near. I want to be part of our great expedition. I want to help, but I also want to live. I’ve seen only eleven years on this earth. I would like to see more before I
die.”
“We all have masters. Even I do not have any more free choice over when we live or die than the lonely sand beetle that wonders the desert in search of a mate.” He spoke cheerfully, but with frank honesty few could appreciate under the circumstances. “We perform for the masters of time. Unfortunately we live and die at their whim.”
Jacob wanted to cry. No tears would fall from his eyes. He was simply too dehydrated. He’d been right – his master had seen their death, and refrained from telling them.
“Young Jacob. I see what you want to know. I have seen it all. I don’t know why, but I have. The question is, will you go on – following me until the end, as you must, if I tell you what has been written?” Nostradamus' right eye curved mysteriously upwards. “What is going to happen?”
Jacob looked up at him and nodded. His crestfallen eyes, asking the words which he didn’t have the strength to ask – Am I going to die tonight?
Nostradamus looked warmly down at him from the comfort of his howdah, like a father to a son. “Yes. We will all die.”
Jacob wanted ever so badly to curl up into a ball and cry, but instead he nodded in brave acceptance. If he was going to die, then his master should at least be proud of him in his last remaining hours.
“You are a good boy, Jacob. You have served me well.” Nostradamus then looked at the sun dipping on the horizon. For a moment Jacob thought the old man was contemplating how many of his party would be alive when it next rose. Nostradamus shook his head, as though it were a silly thing to do. He’d already seen the truth – and the answer was indeed very sad. Nostradamus bent down and handed Jacob a small, golden brass medallion. “Keep this on you at all times. Your role here today is to be a witness to this event, so that one day in the future it will serve a great purpose – when the time is right.”
“I’m not going to die?” Jacob asked.
“We’re all going to die. You, the rest of my party – even I will not live forever. But you will survive this expedition. Your purpose here is not to die. I have brought you here merely to witness the events.”
“What events?”
Nostradamus shook his head. “No. I’m afraid even some things are hidden from me. What I can tell you though, is that you must witness this event. Write down as much as you can and keep it somewhere safe for as long as you can.”
“But who must I tell this to?”
“No one. You must live a long, worthwhile life, and on your deathbed give this medallion to your son, along with the story of the events that happen here, and tell him to give the story to his son. You need to ensure this tradition is continued!”
“Until when?”
Nostradamus raised his voice, as though the answer were obvious. “Until a girl is born!”
“What will happen then?”
“She will find our greatest treasure, at precisely the right time in history, when the world needs it to be discovered.” Nostradamus sighed. “And if she is the right person, filled with honesty and integrity, with enough faith – she will save the world.”
Jacob took the medallion which had been placed over his neck by his master. It was formed by some sort of brass, but as far as he was concerned it was more valuable than had it been made out of solid gold. He stared at the engravings. They depicted a map of an island he’d never seen or heard of. It was shaped like the number eight laying on its side. And on the obverse side were eight numbers which meant absolutely nothing to him. “Does she succeed? Will my great descendent one day save the world?”
Nostradamus shook his head. “I’m afraid the Ancient Scrolls of Time keep some secrets, even from me.”
*
There was no way to tell exactly what time it was when the wind changed. At a guess, Jacob thought the half moon was placed somewhere near midnight when he first heard the howl of time, coming to rob the party of their lives. He wanted to hide and take shelter, but there was nowhere for him to do either. Besides, Nostradamus had been explicit. His purpose here was to bear witness to an event. So instead of hiding, he watched as the party was destroyed.
The sand-filled wind crept through the camp, forcing its way into everything. The startled camels fought with their ropes until they came free and scattered into the desert. Men tried to recapture the frightened animals, but their attempts were hopeless at best.
The locked box, the prized possession that Nostradamus had instructed them to move across the desert for an unknown purpose, looked as though it were going to be buried by sand. The men, devout until the end, were digging at the sand with their bare hands, trying to stop the fine brass box from sinking into the sand.
“Leave it!” Nostradamus ordered. “It belongs here – buried in the sand!”
“What about us?” one of the men asked.
“You have done your duty,” Nostradamus replied. “Now, run for your lives. Take cover. Protect yourselves.”
Jacob watched in horror as the makeshift prison, where their slaves were kept overnight was filling with sand. The large slaves pulled helplessly at the bound sticks which formed their night pen. Their eyes were wide with terror; their white teeth clenched in horror and shined against the profound darkness of their faces.
He couldn’t tell if anyone had noticed the slaves’ plight. If they had, he doubted if any cared enough to do something about it. The stars and the bright crescent moon were no longer visible. Jacob lost sight of the rest of the camp, but his eyes remained focused on the slaves as the sand burned at his exposed skin. The sand was rapidly flooding the prison – if he did nothing, the slaves would soon drown. He knew he should do something, but what could he do?
“It’s time,” Nostradamus said, handing him a single, leather water flask. “You must leave, now.”
Jacob stood up and took the flask. It was full. He wanted to know where it had come from, but one look at his master’s face told him not to ask questions when time was your enemy. “Where do I go?”
Nostradamus smiled. It was wild and crazy, like that of a madman. “Any direction you want.”
“How will I live?” Jacob asked. “How will I possibly make it back to France?”
“Who said you were returning to France?” Nostradamus shook his head as though Jacob had asked a stupid question. “No time to tell the future. Just go. Keep walking until you discover it on your own.”
“What about you?” Jacob asked. He wanted to know about the rest of the party who had already scattered into the desert.
Jacob never heard a response. His master simply walked off and disappeared into the violent storm. He looked at the brass box. Only the very top of it remained visible. The rest was now buried forever. He didn’t even know what it carried that was so valuable – or why his master had gone to such lengths to move it to this desolate place, further than any he’d known to exist, only to have it become buried in the sand where it could surely never be found again.
His eyes returned to the black slaves. Not much more than their heads were now visible above the sand. The slaves had begun fighting with each other, competing for space in the middle where their pen was highest and allowed the most breathing room. Jacob watched as their most basic animal instincts stirred – the desire to live.
He knew he must do something. But if he helped them, they would only kill him once freed. Would they really? He knew the answer to this – of course they would. He’d been their master and now he was vulnerable. He was just an eleven year old boy. How could he stop them, once they were released? Jacob thought about what his master had told him – You will survive this, and you will tell the story to your son and his son, for generations to come, until a girl is born.
Jacob grabbed a knife and climbed onto the top of the makeshift prison. He instantly wished he hadn’t. A slave gripped his left ankle and tried to pull him down. Like a wounded animal, the slaves were trying to attack anyone who came near them, even the one person willing to help.
He kicked the slave’s hand, hard. Jacob felt the grip on his l
eg tighten and so he kicked again. And again, until the hand released pressure and gave way. He then quickly moved to the middle of the prison’s roof. There he stopped. Several hands reached for him, tormenting him. If he didn’t free them soon, they would kill him and then die in the process. Five sticks were bound together by papyrus rope. He sliced at it. The first attempt barely cut through a strand. The second didn’t go much further, but the third sliced all the way through.
The hatchway was pushed open and he was thrown off into the sand. He watched as at least twenty slaves escaped from the sand-filled prison and scattered into the desert storm. All except one of them. It was the largest slave. He was the biggest man Jacob had ever seen. The slave’s blue eyes suddenly fixed on his. The slave’s teeth shined perfectly white, and he howled like a banshee – and then he ran towards him.
Jacob turned to run, but he wasn’t even standing by the time the slave reached him. He felt the slave’s thick, leathery hands reach his shoulder to stop him. The slave quickly threw him to the ground so his back was up against the small wall of sand. It provided protection from the lethal storm, but nothing against the giant of a slave who approached him now.
Jacob quickly began reciting one of the few verses of the Bible he knew by heart – Our father, who art in heaven… He held a small knife out to defend himself. It was stupid and served little purpose. The slave could kill him without any effort.
The slave approached slowly and snatched the knife out of his hand. He tucked it into the side of his loincloth. A moment later, the slave saw the leather water flask in the sand next to him. He snatched away the water flask as quick as he had the knife. The slave took two small sips and returned it. Jacob tried not to meet his eyes, as though he were a monster who could be avoided through ignorance. But the monster sat next to him. Jacob was horrified by the slave’s blue eyes. He’d never seen a black slave with blue eyes before. They were an intense blueish gray, piercing, and stared vacantly at him, as though he were a ghost.
Jacob shivered throughout the night. In the morning the wind was still and the sand had settled into a beautiful day. The sun was rising and soon it would be too hot to travel. The slave was the first to stand. He looked up at the sun for a moment to orient himself, and then walked due south.
The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2 Page 51