The Inca Prophecy

by Adrian D'hagé

  A small bulb, protected by a rusted cage, probed the shadows around the vault’s heavy steel door. It was fitted with dual locks, and Felici dialled in both combinations. The door moved easily on its massive hinges and Felici took an involuntary step back at the sight of the skull. Something about the exquisitely carved crystal masterpiece unnerved him deeply. A curious blue light emanated from it, and Felici’s approach caused orange and red flashes of light to spark around the eye sockets. It was as if the skull was somehow communicating.

  In the past, Felici had contemplated smashing the skull, but he was now determined to decipher the information within it. But how? Suddenly an image appeared in the left eye socket, followed by another in the right. A strange mist enveloped the inside of the skull and Felici steadied himself against the rock wall of the vault. Deep in the crystal, images of some of the world’s most precious sites were being blown apart with horrific force. Felici watched, mesmerised as the images slowly faded from view. He waited until his breathing returned to normal before moving to the small safe that was anchored in the rock wall. It was designed to withstand intense heat, but more importantly, high humidity. Felici dialled the combination and extracted two crimson folders embossed with his gold coat of arms.

  The first document had been translated from the Quechua dialect, and although it was easy to read, its meaning was obscure:

  Advertencia – a warning

  When the Eagle of the North and the Condor of the South fly together, the Earth will awaken.

  Twelve thousand years ago, the last remnants of the ancient civilisations of Atlantis and Lemuria were destroyed. Their scientists had ignored the warnings from the Masters against experiments that upset the planet’s delicate balance. The Masters assembled the most precious of their sacred documents for safekeeping.

  The Atlantean Golden Sun Disc, along with the most important documents, were secured in the Temple of the Sun in the Inca capital, Cusco. But when the Spaniards came, the Sun Disc and the documents were removed and taken to the Lost City of Paititi.

  Felici had read Plato, and he knew that the revered Greek mathematician and philosopher had mentioned the existence of Atlantis in 360 BC. In the past, Felici had dismissed the lost continent as a figment of Plato’s imagination, but now he wasn’t so sure. Felici had recently learned that in the third century BC, another Greek philosopher, Crantor, had also written of Atlantis. Crantor had visited Egypt, and, after conversations with priests in the ancient capital of Alexandria, he had been shown hieroglyphs the priests kept hidden from view. The hieroglyphs not only confirmed the existence of the Atlantean civilisation, but indicated the Atlanteans were highly advanced, particularly in science and mathematics. Felici turned to the second page of the yellowed Inca prophecy:

  The Lost City of Paititi lies deep in the Amazonian jungle. The Sun Disc is now hidden in a subterranean temple, in the Monastery of the Brotherhood of the Seven Rays. It will remain there until human-kind is ready to receive it, and able to use its extraordinary power for the greater good.

  Those who are called the Conquistadors have not found the hidden monastery, nor have they found the citadel of Machu Picchu, for they are focused on gold and greed.

  There will come a time when Planet Earth, like the continents of Atlantis and Lemuria, will face destruction, but disaster can be averted. The Source energy enters the planet in two locations. The masculine ray enters in the Himalayas, and the balancing feminine ray enters at Lake Titicaca, the earth’s highest lake. From these two points, a magnetic grid radiates, on which all the ancient sites of power are located. To avoid the destruction that beset Atlantis, you must unite the three crystal skulls, when the sun is at its zenith. But those who seek Paititi must first find the outer sanctuary in the Hidden Valley.

  The Great Cipher provides the key. Both the ancient map and the Golden Puma are critical.

  Felici returned the parchment to the safe and opened the second folder. As he’d done many times before, Felici pondered the single yellowed document containing a series of mysterious numbers:

  The Cipher

  299 4 164 177 3 228 45 287 36 224 84 200 83 232 50 145 194 219 101 10 125 127 9 166 216 113 241 38 158 1 3 61 306 187 199 272 217 206 6 183 152 67 145 200 106 306 253 310 231 218 12 108 156 23 126 111 78 219 279 281 260 145 287 166 106 304 7 6 225 66 270 246 204 223 126 218 171 108 140 273 170 281 50 272 243 145 307 270 6 27 250 295 314 107 146 48 207 189 108 304 53 204 180 126 158 210 78 279 68 3 9 105 124 108 6 253 172 280 125 256 78 71 206 225 7 6 70 206 279 225 126 218 9 108 125 212 182 101 291 106 147 219 61 218 152 190 38 24 150 243 189 145 217 55 125 35 234 152 71 158 38 156 6 123 101 219 96 187 125 69 217 117 169 223 270 250 3 225 252 158 68 240 182 104 38 158 196 6 107 124 218 125 79 112 232 114 78 241 55 111 247 170 227 137 145 162 38 192 253 33 96 206 125 69 293 52 287 78 69 147 70 125 78 168 17 152 33 239 52 219 140 3 254 158 309 207 242 75

  The cipher had made no sense to Felici, so he’d given a photocopy of the numbers to Monsignor Lorenzo de Luca, the head of the Holy Alliance, and directed him to solve it. The priests in the cipher section had gone to work, using the most sophisticated computer programs available, but so far, without success. Felici had also provided them with a photocopy of the first page of the Inca prophecy. Once the cipher was cracked, he surmised that it would provide a series of compass bearings, but the critical information on the Andes and Lake Titicaca he had kept to himself. Felici was convinced that if the cipher could be decoded, he’d have a way to find Paititi.

  To his annoyance, further evidence for this had surfaced in the public domain. A few years before, another document had been discovered in the Jesuit archives in Rome that described an ancient Inca city in the Peruvian jungle, which the natives called Paititi, reportedly rich in gold and precious jewels. Various archaeological expeditions had ensued, which Felici had followed closely, but to date they had all been unsuccessful. He returned the cipher to the safe and locked it, resolving to check on progress when he returned to Rome.

  ‘You look worried, Eminence,’ Sister Bridget observed as she served an asparagus and mushroom frittata from the green marble top of the elegant Louis XVI sideboard.

  ‘The Pope’s health,’ Felici replied, not altogether truthfully. ‘He’s just been diagnosed with bladder cancer.’ Bridget was one of the few Vatican insiders Felici trusted.

  ‘Oh, no …’ Even though her loyalties lay firmly with her own cardinal, the news came as a shock. ‘When will you want to go back?’

  Felici reached across the table for Bridget’s hand. ‘We are all entitled to a break, my dear. I’ve already approved a media release for both Vatican and wider public consumption. Dr Rossi and His Holiness’s private secretary are aware of the Pope’s condition, but as far as the rest of the world is concerned, and that includes the curial cardinals, His Holiness is merely undergoing a routine check-up. You and I will get an early night, and tomorrow, we’ll take a drive in the mountains. We will return to Rome soon enough.’

  Bridget smiled and squeezed his hand in return.

  Chapter 4

  O’Connor alighted from the train and scanned the small redbrick platform that served Auvers-sur-Oise. Apart from a group of tourists, the platform was clear. He made his way through the station exit, towards the headquarters of the self-styled Iranian government-in-exile in Rue des Gords, less than two kilometres from the station. Auvers-sur-Oise was an interesting location for the National Council of Resistance of Iran, he thought.

  Auvers on the Oise River, a peaceful little commune set amongst rolling fields on the fringes of the north-west suburbs of Paris, was better known for the great artists who had once painted there than for governments-in-exile. Daubigny, Pissarro, Cézanne, Henri Rousseau, Freundlich and Van Gogh had all lived and painted in the idyllic village. O’Connor glanced at his watch. Just after midday. He’d arranged to meet his contact from the NCRI in the Commerce de Vins, a small restaurant on the ground floor of the Ravoux Inn, not far from the station.

  O’C
onnor crossed the road and headed west down Rue du Général de Gaulle. High rock fences and tall elm and oak trees shielded old stone houses opposite quaint village stores. Canvas awnings in reds, blues and dark greens, and wrought-iron balconies hung over the narrow street. The traffic was light, but here and there, O’Connor had to work his way past parked cars and small delivery vans. Even narrower laneways led to houses hidden amongst the trees.

  Within minutes O’Connor sighted the two-storey white-stone building with a moss-encrusted brown slate roof. Van Gogh had lived above the Commerce de Vins restaurant, which boasted a red wooden frontage on the ground floor. White lace curtains made it difficult to see the interior of the restaurant from the road. O’Connor casually but carefully surveyed the leafy car park opposite. Satisfied, he pushed open the wooden door.

  O’Connor’s contact was already sitting at one of the small wooden tables in a far corner. In his late forties, Jalal Ashtar was possessed of a square, swarthy face, thick dark hair, and a neatly trimmed black beard and moustache. He wore rimless glasses and he was dressed in a casual, open-necked blue shirt under his dark-blue jacket. Ashtar’s CIA file indicated he was one of the more astute members of the NCRI, but could his contacts inside Iran be trusted? O’Connor wasn’t so sure. The restaurant was already half full, and as O’Connor made his way across the black-and-white tiled floor, smoke from a dozen cigarettes drifted up into the old-fashioned lamps suspended from the roof.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Ashtar,’ O’Connor said, pulling out a wooden chair. ‘Préférez-vous parler en anglais ou en français?’

  ‘You’re clearly a man of many talents, Mr O’Connor, but English will be fine. Cigarette?’ Ashtar asked, proffering a gold-tipped Sobranie Black Russian in a black and gold pack.

  ‘Not one of my vices, monsieur.’ O’Connor smiled at the young, attractive waitress as he ordered a country terrine of pork, chicken and pistachios, and a crock of pickles.

  Ashtar ordered the salmon with honey sauce and grilled onions and waited until the waitress had withdrawn before he began to speak in a low, urgent voice. ‘The world is running out of time, Mr O’Connor. The West is grossly underestimating the preparations Iran is making to join the nuclear weapons club, particularly since Mahmoud Ahmadinejad won the 2005 presidential election.’ Ashtar’s voice carried the heavy Iranian accent of a man who’d been born and raised in Esfahan, a city some 400 kilometres south of Tehran. His CIA file indicated he’d fled the country in 1979, when the Shah was exiled to the United States after Ayatollah Khomeini seized power during the Iranian Revolution. Over the years, Ashtar had worked his way up to a position of influence in the Iranian government-in-exile.

  ‘The International Atomic Energy Agency doesn’t seem to think so,’ O’Connor remarked. ‘They inspect fairly regularly.’

  ‘The IAEA are having the wool pulled over their eyes and Ahmadinejad and Ayatollah Khamenei are making sure the UN inspectors are kept well away from any sensitive areas. Are you aware that the Iranians are running two nuclear programs?’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Washington is watching the program based on the nuclear research centre at Tehran University and the nuclear reactors the Russians are building at Bushehr in the Gulf – but that’s the public program. The top-secret program is run by the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps. They’ve established a strategic research and technology unit, which is run by a Brigadier General Hossein Shakiba. Shakiba reports directly to the Supreme National Security Council and the President. Very few outside that unit know of its existence. Not even the parliament is briefed on the military program.’

  ‘How’s it funded then?’

  ‘The same way you fund many of your operations, Mr O’Connor.’

  O’Connor nodded. There were, he knew, dozens of ‘black operations’ run by US Special Forces and the CIA that were funded without the knowledge of even the President, let alone Congress.

  ‘And the budget is in excess of a billion dollars US,’ Ashtar added.

  ‘Impressive.’ That put Shakiba’s million-dollar bribes to the two Pakistanis in the petty-cash tin, O’Connor thought.

  ‘Particularly when Iran’s economy has been blacklisted by most of the Western world.’ Ashtar slid a small, buff-coloured envelope across the table and lit another cigarette. ‘The headquarters of the Guards’ nuclear division is located in the north of Tehran near Vanak Square. The thumb drive inside that envelope details appointments, programs and what we believe are the Iranian’s current and future plans – including the construction of a heavy-water reactor at Arak, new centrifuge facilities at Natanz and other sites that we suspect are being constructed deep beneath the mountains.’

  ‘Suspect?’

  ‘It’s difficult for us to gain confirmation,’ Ashtar admitted, ‘and both the Zagros and the Alborz mountain ranges are extensive.’

  O’Connor nodded. Iran was a very mountainous country. It had only two major lowlands: the marshy Khuzestan plain in the southwest and the longer, narrower Caspian Sea plain in the north. Many of the rugged peaks in the Zagros and Alborz chains soared close to 4000 metres.

  ‘Iran’s progress towards obtaining a nuclear capability is still not well understood in the West,’ Ashtar continued. ‘We suspect the Natanz centrifuge facilities will include 60 000 machines buried beneath reinforced concrete, but again, we’re not certain, as we no longer have many of our own people on the ground in Iran.’

  O’Connor studied his informant’s face, wondering how much he really knew.

  ‘But it’s the heavy-water plant at Arak that should give the West most cause for concern.’

  ‘Plutonium?’ O’Connor’s mind went back to the discussions between General Shakiba and the two Pakistanis.

  ‘Precisely. Your intelligence agencies are focusing on the enrichment of uranium-235 and the manufacture of missile warheads, but you should be more worried about the amount of plutonium that will be available as a by-product of the Arak heavy-water reactor.’ Ashtar paused, fingering his closely trimmed beard. ‘And I wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that it will be used in a nuclear warhead, although there will be more than enough to arm any missiles.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that although ultimate power in Iran rests with the Supreme Leader, that power is underpinned by the Revolutionary Guards. The Guards are fiercely loyal to the Ayatollah, but they are even more fiercely loyal to Islam – Shia Islam – and we have reason to believe that General Shakiba, in particular, bears careful watching. He is not what he seems.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  Ashtar waited while the waitress delivered the country terrine and the salmon.

  ‘Shakiba is first and foremost a Muslim … but a Shi’ite,’ he continued. ‘His wife and only son were murdered by Sunni extremists during a pilgrimage to the al-Askari Mosque in Samarra in Iraq, one of the holiest sites in all of Shia Islam, and Shakiba has now sworn vengeance against the Sunnis. Iran’s access to nuclear weapons is bad enough, but General Shakiba’s access to weapons of mass destruction may have consequences well beyond Sunni–Shia sectarian violence.’

  ‘Do you have proof that Shakiba is linked to Hezbollah?’ In the West, Hezbollah was classified as a terrorist organisation, but in much of the Arab and Muslim world, it was seen as a Shia political and resistance movement.

  ‘After the successful overthrow of the Shah, the hardline conservatives in Tehran turned their attention to Beirut,’ said Ashtar. ‘Lebanon is the next target in their quest to Islamise the world, and they won’t stop until they’ve successfully turned Lebanon into a Shia Islamic state.’

  O’Connor nodded. Lebanon and its capital Beirut, once known as the Paris of the Middle East, was a bloody quagmire. A brutal civil war had erupted in 1975 in a struggle for power between Maronite Christians, Druze, Sunnis, and Shi’ites. On the southern border with Israel, Palestinians fleeing Israeli persecution only complicated the deadly situation. Israel had invaded Lebanon twic
e, and since 1976, the thuggish Syrian army had been taking bayonets and axes to anyone who opposed the Syrian regime. O’Connor reflected on his own country’s brief, naïve flirtation with the conflict. In 1983, 241 US marines and 58 French paratroopers from the Chasseur Regiment had been slaughtered, their barracks pulverised by Shia extremists ramming trucks laden with explosives through the front gates. Many in the CIA believed Iran had been behind the attacks. The Israeli Defense Minister Yitzhak Rabin had got it right, O’Connor thought ruefully. Whoever set his foot on the Lebanese mud would sink.

  ‘The Iranians will not stop until the world is ruled by Sharia law, and the struggle has now moved to Lebanon,’ Ashtar emphasised. ‘Are you familiar with the technology associated with plutonium nuclear suitcase bombs, Mr O’Connor?’

  ‘Yes, although I’m not an expert,’ O’Connor lied, intimately acquainted with the nuclear physics. The advantages of creating a nuclear weapon that fitted neatly into a suitcase were many. He also knew the Russians had achieved a successful design, and after the collapse of the Soviet Union, O’Connor had heard reports that eighty of these ‘nuclear suitcases’ were missing. Western intelligence agencies around the world were on alert, but none of the missing suitcases had ever been found, and O’Connor knew that by now, the initiating devices in the bombs would need replacing.

  ‘Then you’ll be aware that just one kilogram of plutonium has the explosive power of over 20 000 tonnes of TNT. We suspect that Shakiba will attempt to develop suitcase bombs once the supply of plutonium from Arak comes on line.’

  O’Connor listened to the Iranian dissident with growing alarm. Like the Russians, the United States had experimented with small tactical nuclear weapons, but the complex technology had been tightly guarded.

  ‘You’re sure of this? Where would they gain access to the expertise?’ O’Connor asked finally.