The Nine Men (A Novella)

by Haydn Jones

  In the hotel room next door, the Frenchman was snoring so loudly that he woke himself up; he grunted, disorientated in strange surroundings, before slowly sitting up and sipping from a glass of water on the nightstand. As his mind cleared his thoughts turned to Professor Shastri and he tried to calculate the last time he’d seen him. ‘Quatre-ans, cinq-ans, peut-être?’ he said to himself.

  It was actually five-years ago when they last met; in New York for a conference. Both men had been invited to give papers. At the after-party conference Canseliet took an instant dislike to Professor Shastri and his pompous attitude; disagreeing with many of his opinions on archeology; especially when the professor extolled his interpretation of the indigenous behavior of the Incas to a group of champagne sipping followers.

  ‘What does he know?’ the Frenchman mumbled to himself.

  He looked out of the hotel room window to see the shimmering sun dipping below the horizon. He checked his watch, but had no idea what the actual time was in New Delhi, or how long he’d been asleep.

  It was time for a Gauloises.

  Chapter Seven

  The Holy Danilov Monastery: Headquarters of the Russian Orthodox Church in Moscow.

  Brother Alexi checked his watch; he had been in the vaults for just three-hours. So why did it feel like a whole day? The stone walls and flagstone floors were cold all-year-round. The ceiling was a complex set of brick arches supported by six round, stone pillars.

  The walls were covered in wooden shelving and the room itself, some ninety-feet by fifty-feet was one of four separate vaults, all separated by solid oak doors. The second vault on his list was called the Book Room. The monk looked at the closed door and decided he would make a start on it first thing in the morning, after prayers and a good breakfast. Right now he was feeling cold and hungry and evening prayers was only one-hour away. He checked the list of items in his book, counting some thirty separate artifacts including: a two-foot gold crucifix, four silver chalices, a stack of silver plates and a dozen candlesticks. The monk closed the book with a slap that echoed in the vault. A good days work, he thought to himself.

  Strangely, he enjoyed the day’s challenge. He was alone but he was in charge. Nobody was saying, do this, do that, clean this, brother, and at least it wasn’t summer yet; the days outdoors were still cold and misty; awaiting the arrival of spring.

  Being down here when the sun was warm on your face and the flowers were in full broom would really be depressing, he thought. Brother Alexi picked up his book and walked out of the vaults, switching off the lights, before locking the door. ‘The book room tomorrow, that should be interesting,’ he said, jangling the keys on the ring as he climbed the stairs with purpose and a rumble in his belly.

  The next morning with a stomach full of bread and oatmeal the monk headed back to the vaults. He crossed the courtyard, as rain, carried by a brisk wind, stung his face. As he entered the church he lowered his hood and stood facing the altar brushing beads of water off his black, woolen habit. The air he breathed felt cold and the building seemed strangely silent, as if the world outside didn’t exist. Composing himself, he lowered his head and made the sign of the cross on his chest before making his way along the shadowed wooden cloisters to the left of the altar and down the stone steps to the vaults.

  This time the key turned easily in the lock and the monk pushed the door open. Reaching into the darkness he fumbled for the light-switch which clicked on and the two florescent tubes, hanging from long chains, reluctantly flickered into life.

  Walking to the far end of room he selected another key and tried it in the door lock. It worked and he pushed the door open. Again, he fumbled for the light switch but something touched his hand and he jerked it back in shock. ‘…Pull yourself together man,’ he said, taking a deep breath and again feeling for the switch. This time his fingers touched something round and he flicked the switch on, awakening a single strip-light above him; a cobweb dangled for his fingers. The monk noticed a long-legged spider scampering up his arm and he quickly brushed it off with his hand.

  This vault was half the size of the first room and stacked books filled the shelves to his left and right. In the middle of the room, next to a pillar, stood a large table, covered with books in untidy piles, and beyond the table was another locked door.

  There was a faint smell in the room that he couldn’t recognize, yet it seemed somehow vaguely familiar. As he walked into the room he felt a waft of air on his face and the door behind him closed with a bang that made him jump.

  ‘Come on Alexi, you have a job to do,’ he said, trying to reassure himself. A cold shiver rippled through his body. ‘It’s just a room full of old books, that’s all, and books can’t hurt you, you silly fool.’

  On the untidy table Brother Alexi noticed a large, brown leather book that was labeled ‘Book Inventory.’ He opened it to find it was a book list compiled by a fellow monk, named Gregory, and dated 1987. ‘That was a long time ago, but this should make my task easier,’ he said to himself, sitting down on a chair next to the table. Alexi noticed that the list was grouped into approximately twenty subject categories, including: theology, philosophy, geography and even gardening. At the end of the list was a category labeled, Miscellaneous. Out of interest he opened the book at the end section. Books were numbered and he glanced up at the shelves, noticing a numbering system. One of books in the list, number 877, was described simply as a uncategorized mystery item , and that intrigued the monk. A sub category indicated that it was originally from the Cathedral of Christ the Savior which meant that it was one of the items for return. Standing up, he placed the inventory book on the table and walked around to find the mystery book’s location. The label on one of the shelves to his right indicated numbers from 850-900. The monk walked over to inspect the strange book, but the slot was empty; the book was missing. His brow furrowed. That’s strange, he thought, returning to the chair and slumping on the seat. ‘I wonder how many more are missing, Alexi?’ he asked himself.

  His hand brushed his pocket and his spirits lifted as he pulled out a pipe, full of tobacco. He struck a match on the side of the table and watched as clouds of sweet smelling smoke drifted upwards, before closing his eyes and relaxing with a contended smile. Eight-seven-seven! His eyes flashed open and he stared at the book in front of him on the table; on its ribbed spine was a stained sticky label and written in faded ink was the number 877.

  ‘Well, well, well — the uncategorized mystery book!’ He picked up the dusty tome and rested it on his lap. It was heavy and the burgundy leather was inlayed with an intricate gold-leaf pattern around its perimeter; the corners of the book were protected by bright, metal reinforced edges that resembled rose gold.

  The monk opened the thick book somewhere near the middle and delicately stroked the semi-translucent parchment with the tips of his fingers; the hand-written text was unfamiliar to him. ‘This is strange, Alexi; it’s not Latin — that’s for sure.’

  Chapter Eight

  The Eros Hotel, New Delhi

  Professor Shastri walked into the foyer of the Hotel Eros and wandered over to the reception desk. He was greeted by an attractive, dark-haired receptionist.

  ‘Can I help you sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Professor Shastri… to see Dr. McPherson,’ he answered, coldly.

  ‘Please wait, sir, I’ll try to contact him for you.’

  ‘Yes, — okay.’ The professor tapped his fingers impatiently on the reception desk; looking down his nose at the young girl making a phone call. In his hand he was carrying a shiny, metal briefcase. He watched as the young girl made the call.

  ‘Dr. McPherson……reception here, I have a Professor Shastri in reception to see you……Thank you, I’ll inform him… He’s on his way down to meet you, Professor.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The professor walked away from the desk. His shiny back-combed hair was thinning on top, and his round, burnished face and fleshy jowl allied well with his rotund belly. He was w
earing an expensive light-grey suit and open-necked white shirt. His leather shoes were highly polished and from his appearance it would be easy to mistake him for a wealthy business man; Professor Shastri was no Indiana Jones.

  ‘Sacré bleu! If it isn’t the inimitable Professor Shastri.’

  The professor turned to see a smiling Victor Canseliet. ‘Victor… good to see you again.’ The two men hugged, with an awkward rigidity.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to Dr. McPherson.’

  Robert moved forward and shook hands with the professor. ‘We meet at last, Professor.’

  Shastri, dipped his head, ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor… Is there somewhere we can sit in private?’

  Robert smiled confidently. ‘I have a meeting room booked, if that’s okay? I’ve also arranged for some coffee in about ten-minutes.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Robert looked at the receptionist and nodded; she immediately walked over to escort them to the meeting room on the ground floor. On arrival she opened the door to a conference room and turned on the lights. The room comprised a large central table surrounded by twelve chairs.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way, gentlemen,’ she said with a broad, white smile.

  Professor Shastri placed his metal briefcase flat on the table and settled on a chair, quickly flanked by Robert and Victor.

  ‘I have just received the results of the carbon-dating,’ Shastri said as he flipped the catches open on the briefcase. ‘Gentlemen, the manuscript is around two-thousand-years old.’ He tuned to look at Robert with a smug smile that pouted his bottom lip.

  Robert stole a glance at Victor whose expression remained impassive at the news.

  Shastri opened the lid to reveal a sealed metal tube about three-inches in diameter and twelve-inches long, sitting snugly in a sheet of charcoal grey, foam-filler, cut exactly to fit the tube. ‘I have never been so excited in my life, Robert,’ Shastri said, ignoring the Frenchman. ‘I have brought a copy with me today. The original is locked up in a safe place.’

  Victor looked at Robert and frowned. ‘When do we get to see the original?’ He asked Shastri.

  ‘Well,…I’m not sure that’s absolutely necessary, is it, Victor?’ Shastri’s tone was clearly condescending as he opened the tube and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper.

  ‘So who will be allowed to see the original, Professor?’ Robert asked.

  ‘…We need to understand the reasons for wanting to examine the manuscript before we can answer that.’

  Robert now understood why Victor disliked this pompous man.

  As the sheet was unfolded on the table Victor stood up to view the document. ‘What is the original material made of ?’ He asked.

  ‘Parchment… goat’s skin, we think. The edges of the original manuscript are strangely serrated.’

  Victor stood up straight and took a deep breath. ‘Nothing strange about that,’ he said, with an air of authority.

  Shastri looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  Victor smiled and huffed. ‘If it’s a key-code the serrations are there to match up to other sheets. No one sheet will give all the answers. There will be more, maybe four, possibly six sheets that lock into the serrations on each of the sides. A bit like a jigsaw puzzle.’

  Shastri looked deflated. ‘Are you saying there’s more of these?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Professor.’ Victor glanced at Robert and nodded.

  All three men were now standing, inspecting the strange script on the photocopy. The serrated edges of the original document clearly visible on the copy. Victor removed a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and leaned over the copy with interest. Strange mumblings emanated from his mouth as he moved around the document like Sherlock Holmes investigating a murder mystery.

  ‘What are your plans for this manuscript, Professor?’ Robert asked, as Victor continued to examine the script.

  Shastri clasped his hands behind his back and walked away. ‘A very good question, Robert! The manuscript obviously has some intrinsic value; but the real value would be realized if the missing book was found. The professor stopped, with his back to Robert. The book in Russia that is; Book Nine, The rules for the evolution of societies and the means for foretelling their futures. That sheet of serrated goat’s skin suddenly becomes an extremely, sought-after and expensive commodity.’ Shastri turned and looked Robert in the eyes.

  Robert held his stare. ‘You’re assuming the book can be found. It’s been missing for a very long time, Professor. You’re also assuming that this document relates to that book.’

  ‘And you won’t know that until you can see the book itself,’ added Victor, raising his head from the sheet.

  ‘I sense you’re planning on talking to the Russian authorities in the near future?’ Robert said. If you haven’t already, he thought.

  Shastri again turned away, hands folded behind his back. ‘…I’m not ruling out that possibility.’

  Victor folded the sheet and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t mind if we keep this then,’ Robert said. ‘We’ve come a long way to see just a copy, Professor; especially when you promised to show us the original document.’

  Shastri raised a pointed finger and opened his mouth to protest… but then decided against it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert. I fear it was all my fault. As you no doubt noticed, I’m not Shastri’s favorite person.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Victor, Shastri’s out for one thing, and one thing only…himself.’

  Victor lit a cigarette and looked up at the stars in the dark night sky. The evening was warm and a gentle breeze carried his cigarette smoke away over his shoulder, to be lost in the evening air.

  Robert was sitting at a table on the hotel terrace sipping a cold beer, deep in thought, while Victor wandered around, equally thoughtful.

  ‘He’s already made contact with the Russians.’

  Victor stopped in his tracks. ‘How do you know that?’

  Robert smiled and sipped his beer. ‘We have our ways, Victor.’

  ‘Yes,…of course you do…that was a stupid thing to say… But what about the implications?’ The Frenchman pulled hard on his cigarette and the red glow lit up his white goatee. ‘That thing about the serrations; I made that up, Robert.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Victor.’

  ‘You do? How…’

  Robert smiled, ignoring the question. ‘The implications are enormous. We simply have to get to Book Nine before the Russians do. Shastri’s manuscript is, as he pointed out, only useful if the missing book is found. Together they are dynamite, individually they are nothing but quaint items of antiquity; of interest to a handful of academics.’

  ‘And just how do you plan on getting to the book first, mon ami?’

  Robert sipped his beer, his face showing no emotion. ‘That… is the million-dollar question… isn’t it? How do find a missing book in Russia…before the Russians find it?’

  Chapter Nine

  The Federal Security Service (FSB) building, Lubyanka Square, Moscow.

  The coffee-colored building, just over a half mile north-east of Red Square, was once the home of the infamous KGB. Today it is the home of the Federal Security Service. Although the building was bathed in afternoon sunshine a blustery north wind stiffened the many flags that adorned a central position in front of the building’s grand facade.

  Commander Leonid Tsvetaeva stared out of the fourth-story window of his office, deep in thought, pondering the strange conversation he’d just had with the Russian ambassador in New Delhi.

  His chiseled, granite-like face, short-cropped hair and, sturdy six-feet five frame had served him well in the army. An adrenalin junkie in his twenties and thirties; he had built a reputation for being fearless and brave. The decorations on his jacket were a proud reminder of how he had risked his life for the Mother Land in Afghanistan. He was just twenty-five-years old when he was sent home,
seriously injured. In the same year, 1989, Russian troops, under orders from Mikhail Gorbachev, left Afghanistan for good.

  Twenty-six years later, at the age of fifty-one, Leonid Tsvetaeva’s combat days were over, just memories, memories that he frequently indulged in, sitting at his desk; memories that made his pulse race and his palms wet.

  Now he was being told to find a strange book that might be of great interest to the Mother Land. He rubbed his chin as he limped back to his desk, and, as he put his glasses on he asked himself:

  ‘How can any book be of interest?’

  On his note-pad he wrote: Look for a book!… Then he leaned back and looked up at the smoke stained ceiling. ‘Is this what my life has come to…Commander Leonid Tsvetaeva…looking for a fucking book!’

  The big Russian had no idea where to start; despondently he lit a cigarette to help him think.

  …Some minutes later he opened the telephone directory on his desk and checked for the name and number of the Kremlin’s librarian. His large index finger eventually stopped next to the name of Veronika Glazkov; extension number 1249. Leonid Tsvetaeva picked up the phone and dialed… ‘Is that Veronika Glazkov?’ he asked impatiently, in a deep, resonant voice.

  ‘Yes, this is Veronika Glazkov, who is speaking?’

  ‘My name is Commander Tsvetaeva from the FSB; I need to see you about a book.’

  ‘Certainly…what book is it, Commander?’

  ‘…I don’t know.’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘You don’t know?’ she asked, hesitantly.

  ‘No…All I know is that it's written in a strange eso…esot…’

  ‘Esoteric script?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Is it an old book, Commander?’ the librarian enquired.

  ‘Very old… Around two-thousand-years old.’