Beyond Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  He was going back to the yacht to work. He pulled on a blazer. Nestor had hated dressing up as a kid, hated wearing suits of any kind, but now he felt uncomfortable, even on casual days such as this, without some kind of jacket.

  His wife was sitting on the sofa in the living room of their suite, consternated, not knowing quite how to be the one with the potentially unbelievable line of conversation. “So, supposing I did agree with you that somehow… possibly… potentially… there was a way to live, if not forever, for several hundred years… in our current bodies?” she asked.

  Nestor looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

  “But if it wasn’t in the way you expected?”

  “Changes that are large, and important, seldom do happen exactly as expected,” he replied. “That part wouldn’t be important. But, darling, keep in mind that while I wouldn’t mind if it were unexpected, it must be real. It must be able to be proved scientifically.”

  “Why must everything be scientific?” Geri burst out. “Can’t it just be real? Isn’t that enough?”

  “Then don’t be upset. If it’s real, it can certainly be proved.”

  “Sometimes you have to go with faith,” Geri said.

  “I have nothing against faith,” agreed Nestor, checking his watch. “Unless it entails someone asking for money—specifically my money. Or unless it entails risking my health—or yours.”

  This didn’t calm her. His usually implacable wife was still clutching and unclutching her hands and running her hand over the top of her head and scratching the hair energetically in back.

  “Well, whatever has brought you here, whatever you’re checking into, you’re a very smart woman. I don’t believe anyone will be able to hoodwink you. They haven’t as yet.” He chuckled. “Now, I believe my car’s out front. As you know, I have some important work that needs to be done this morning in my office on the yacht. Whenever you’re done with… whatever it is you’re doing, give me a call. We can do a bit of exploring here on the island, or else have a pleasant dinner on board, or even island-hop.”

  Geri stood and Nestor put both hands on her shoulders and kissed her eyelids. “Have a productive day, my faith-full one,” he said. And he headed out toward the front drive.

  February 26, 2006, 8:47 a.m.

  Somewhere dark

  * * *

  Jimi Afzal sat on his plain metal bed, knees pulled up to his chest, leaning his back and head against the cold wall. Cupped in his hand was the business card he pulled out of his pocket once a day. That was all he allowed himself… once… otherwise the frustration was unbearable.

  On the front of the card, in raised gold foil, was the name Ian H. Rachmann, followed by Executive Editor, Golden Rachmann Publishing. On the back was scribbled in Jimi’s own hand: Mon., Dec. 5, 9 a.m. This card was his lifeline, because it was the only connection Jimi had with the life he’d known before this unending boredom, the unending darkness and frustration.

  As each day passed, and he pulled out the card once again, Jimi felt a little more hopeless. How long had he been here? He had been so intent on keeping track of the days when he was first kidnapped but eventually grew weary of that, especially after Christmas Day. That had been horrible, realizing what day it was, wanting something, anything, to brighten his favorite holiday. But no. The endless routine, the food, the tests, the attitude of the guards… nothing had changed. It had been a day just like any other in this horrible purgatory. And each day since had been pretty much the same.

  Jimi carefully placed the card back into his pocket and lifted his feet, stretching out fully on the bed. Supposing he never got back? Supposing he was going to die here?

  His parents had always been very emphatic with him about being grateful for each day, living each day fully, as if it was your last. But he’d been a driven kid. He wanted to dream, to plan, but also to do. He wanted to be a full editor at Golden Rachmann within three years, work toward his own imprint either there or somewhere else, and have his own publishing company by 35. With all the changes in the publishing world, the ease of electronic printing and e-books, it was a whole new world. Completely possible.

  He wanted to publish books that contained ideas, that started conversations, made the world a better place. He wanted to make a difference.

  If he died now, had he? Had his life made a difference at all?

  He had planned to be married in his mid-thirties. He didn’t want to have to worry about supporting a family until then. But because of that, he hadn’t ever had a serious romantic relationship. That would be one loss, one thing he’d do differently.

  Who would miss him? His parents. His friends. He did have good friends.

  And yet who besides them would mourn what the world might have become, had he been allowed to live?

  As he stared up at the ceiling, he tried to occupy his mind by working through the content of the first series of books he planned to write. Would the professor still be willing to work with him? Would Mr. Rachmann still hear his pitch?

  This kind of distraction usually worked for him, but today he found it harder to concentrate. The incessant knocking of the hot-water pipes overhead was really irritating. There must be a lot of air in the system, because it seemed worse than usual. Or, maybe this was some kind of new experiment, messing with him mentally… him and the other lab rats they seemed to be holding here.

  The more he tried to ignore it, the more he couldn’t help but focus on the knocking. Soon he realized this was not simple air in the pipes; it had a pattern. Air bubbles are random; they don’t have patterns. He stared at the pipes above his head and realized they traveled through the wall into the next room, probably running the length of the building. As he paid even closer attention to the knocks, he started to pick out a pattern. The first set was all very fast knocks, each set having one more knock than the previous. One knock… two… three… up to ten. Then the knocks were slower, once again one, two, three, up to ten.

  Then it changed to a combination of one slow knock followed by the quick ones. First one quick, two, three, up to six. There was a long pause; then the entire series started all over again.

  Could this be the kid with the baby he had met in the hall? Some sort of code? Jimi added them up, realizing there were twenty-six variations. The alphabet, most likely. He didn’t know Morse code, but he didn’t think this matched with that. Probably something the kid made up. It was not easy to follow, especially when the fast knocks reached eight or more, but it just might work.

  Two more repetitions through the series and there was a long pause. The next series did not follow the original pattern. Four quick knocks, pause, one quick knock, pause, four long knocks… Jimi was losing track now; he needed to write this down—what would four long knocks be, the fourteenth letter of the alphabet?—while he was trying to figure this one out, more letters were passing by.

  Slow down! he thought. If he had the code thing right, the first two letters were d and a. And the third would be… n. Dan. The kid with the baby, he said his name was Daniel. That was it! But how should he respond, and with what? He grabbed the spoon that had been left with his breakfast and stood on his bed to reach the pipe. The next time the knocking paused, he started tapping.

  Ten quick taps. Pause. Nine quick taps. Pause. Three long taps. Pause. Nine quick taps. He waited a bit, then repeated the series.

  He stopped and waited. Soon the response came, very slowly. H-i pause J-i-m-i.

  Jimi sat back down on his bed. His world had now become larger, and a ray of hope brightened the day.

  February 26, 2006, 10:05 a.m.

  Petra Hotel

  Grikos, Patmos

  * * *

  Jaime sat back on the terrace, watching the full sun now over Grikos Bay. For someone like her, who had grown up in Missouri—landlocked—it was amazing to realize that some people had the sea to gaze on every day of their lives. She wondered what that would be like, how it would inform your relationship to the world.


  The young woman tending the hotel desk on this off-season day felt it was unacceptable to have Jaime sitting there eating nothing, so she’d delivered a plate of fruit and goat cheese. Jaime had never realized that work as an Operative could offer so many opportunities for food. She very much enjoyed watching the local fishermen go about their morning business. What she was really doing was waiting for Geri.

  Geri had told her that she was to meet Brother Timothy at the monastery at 10:30 a.m. When Jaime had mentioned she was planning to explore Chora today as well, the two women had made a plan to walk up together.

  Jaime knew from surreptitiously watching her handheld that Geri was still in her hotel room while Constantine/Brother Timothy was already up at the monastery.

  This all continued to be frustrating. Could it be that the elusive Britta Sunmark was right here on Patmos? Jaime and Yani knew Britta had applied for a research grant from FIA, which was based right here. Yani had found an emptied file with her name on it in their offices. Ms. Sunmark had been working with Jorgen Edders for several years before his death, had power of attorney for him, and had disappeared soon after his death, and after writing the request for the research grant.

  The nurse’s aide had said Ms. Sunmark had a fiancé named Constantine, and FIA had a name and address for Constantine, right here at a place where his mail was delivered.

  But what it all led back to was those five kidnapped kids—two of them in their twenties but really kids just the same. Could Jorgen have somehow compromised their identity to Britta? Yani had said that Operatives had interviewed the parents of each of the victims, and all seemed perplexed and saddened by the compromising of their group. It seemed extremely unlikely that any of the parents from that group had given away the identities of the others. However, if Edders had died of a brain tumor, it could be that he had not been fully cognizant of what he was saying at all times—due either to his physical condition or to the drugs he’d been given to combat the pain.

  Could the kids be here on Patmos?

  She hoped Yani would be able to find more information on the hard drives of the computers in the FIA offices. He was trained to find ghost information that users thought they had erased from their computers. There had to be something more substantial to tell what Ms. Sunmark was up to and where she was.

  Jaime wondered if Yani had given her the “babysitting” assignment while he’d taken on the avenue of exploration most likely to be fruitful. Of course he had. Sure, he’d given the speech about having confidence in her back at the safe house in Athens, but he had to say those things or they wouldn’t have been able to work together.

  He’d shown his true operating procedure this morning on the boat: He went and did, then came back and reported to her, giving her instructions. For the easier jobs.

  She looked at her handheld and was able to see him in Skala. What was he up to?

  It helped that all gardeners who had entered the Terris world had permanent tracking devices. If she’d had the proper security clearance and “need to know,” she could have found any one of thousands of people throughout the world.

  As it was, she had Yani. Lucky her.

  She knew she also turned up as a flashing dot on Yani’s screen. He knew where she was, sitting here on this terrace in Grikos. In fact, the only time Yani had lied to her was about a tracking device. Well, it hadn’t been a lie at the time. When he had gotten her to agree to let him insert a locator device shortly after they’d met in Iraq, he promised it was harmless and would become benign in a few days. Then, knowing she would be invited to Eden—and knowing the insertion was painful and not something you’d want to repeat—he’d made a snap decision to insert a permanent device instead so she wouldn’t have to undergo the procedure again.

  Was it thoughtful on his part or just another example of his arrogance?

  She’d also discovered, to her chagrin, that his success in this process had served to enhance his legend at Mountaintop. Usually an insertion required a half-day stay in a sterile surgical suite. He had managed to convince her—by using a deadly headlock, thank you very much—and complete the procedure in ten minutes in a dusty desert environment.

  What a guy. Although dropping her pants for Yani was not exactly what she wanted to be known for.

  But they had worked together well three years ago, when she’d found out through a baptism of fire that she was his “backup” on a difficult assignment in Iraq during the opening phases of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Nothing like having to negotiate travel through a country at war.

  Helping him had gotten her kidnapped and nearly killed. It had gotten Yani’s sister Adara murdered. It had changed Jaime’s life, in many ways, not all of them bad.

  As she pondered this, the cell phone in her pocket vibrated. It was another of her “toys”—it looked and operated like a normal cell phone, but it was, in fact, an enhanced satellite communications system, complete with filter and security fill, so that conversations could not be picked up by other interested parties.

  “What are you eating?” Yani’s voice was casual. He was speaking in his American accent.

  “Some figs. They’re tasty. Want me to save you some?”

  “No, thanks, I was able to catch a bite here on my own.”

  “Are you back inside?”

  “Just got in. There’s been company, but this guy—his name is Villella—finally vacated the premises. Were you able to find the address?”

  “Yes, it’s way out overlooking Lefkos Bay. It was the correct current address, mail delivered for Constantine. However—get this: He left dressed as a monk named Brother Timothy. He met with a woman at the Petra Hotel on Grikos Bay. They had an intense conversation, and he’s meeting her at the monastery to show her something.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Extremely. The woman, Geri, and I are planning to walk up to Chora together. I’ll follow him once we get there. What surprises me is that it’s a small island and the monks at the Monastery of St. John are no fools. If it’s really Constantine, he has to be playing the dual identity pretty close to the chest.”

  “Do you think it is him?”

  “I suppose the real Constantine could be off on his honeymoon with Ms. Sunmark and his cousin the monk is house-sitting. But somehow I doubt it. I only hope this is getting us closer to Britta and to the kidnap victims.”

  “There’s enough evidence that Sunmark and Constantine are linked that I think we should pursue it to the next level. There has to be some way to discover her location, through either FIA or her fiancé. Let me take one more look here in headquarters, and you figure out just what Brother Timothy is up to. Then let’s reassess. It’s very odd that a research company would have no files on any of its projects at its headquarters. There’s nothing. The office security isn’t even very tight. My guess is there’s a separate facility and that it’s nearby. Otherwise, there would be no point in maintaining an office here.”

  “Got it.” As they spoke, Jaime glanced at her handheld. “They’re moving.”

  The dot on the screen told her that Geri had left her room and was heading toward the terrace where Jaime sat.

  “OK, here she comes,” she said. “Let’s see just what’s happening up in Chora.”

  “Be safe.” The phone went dead.

  You, too.

  Jaime looked across the island, at the huge fortresslike monastery rising before her. It was going to be an interesting day.

  February 26, 2006, 10:25 a.m.

  Monastery of St. John

  Chora, Patmos

  * * *

  “We’re going to need to be quick.”

  Geri sat with Brother Timothy in a courtyard between the monastery’s kitchen and the refectory, where the monks would all eat within the hour.

  “There are two local workers in there now finishing up, as Brother Stasis, the cook, is at mass,” the monk continued softly. “I know this is strange, but when those two workers come down, bringing food or water int
o the refectory, you and I are going to go in through the kitchen, to the steps in the back of the room.” He took her hand. “I don’t like to sneak around, Geri, but there’s no way to explain to the workers why a seminarian would be bringing an American Protestant woman down to the lower level. It’s best for no one to ask.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  Geri had wanted to lose herself in the timeless feeling of the monastery: the chanting of the monks, the bittersweet aroma of the incense, the archways, walkways, and courtyards all made from local Patmos stone. Together with the five old iron bells that hung above—two above, three below—the arches and architecture had the power to make time disappear.

  Instead, after arriving at the top, main entrance to the monastery, Geri had followed Brother Timothy quickly down a covered walkway, past the main chapel and the museum, and up several stairs into this open-air courtyard.

  It wasn’t long until a couple of men dressed in black pants and white shirts did indeed exit the kitchen, one carrying a half-dozen long loaves of bread, the other carrying two heavy pitchers of water. Both men nodded cheerfully at Brother Timothy and continued across the courtyard and disappeared into the refectory.

  “Come.” Brother Timothy stood and strode across the courtyard and up the few steps to the kitchen. Geri followed quickly. She had barely a moment to look around the large stone room, which was filled with scents of cooking. Tall pots sat on professional-caliber stove burners, and chopping blocks still sat covered with onions, carrots, and celery.

  Geri found herself responding to the whole atmosphere. She imagined herself in a nun’s habit, quietly cutting and chopping, making soup humbly, for the rest of her days.

  But Brother Timothy had not stopped. She hurried after him across the stone floor. In the back of the room, a rectangular opening in the floor revealed a stone staircase descending against the back wall. A wrought-iron banister led down. Brother Timothy had already disappeared below. Geri thought she heard the voices of the two men coming back as she hurried down behind him.