‘Martin Luther would have only just published his Ninety-Five Theses then,’ Ella added. ‘His works challenged the very role of the pope and highlighted the corruption of the Church. He also wrote that everyone, including women, should be educated. Pope Leo X branded him a heretic. But many agreed with him, it started a religious revolution in Germany.’
‘So what organisation was de Quixlay with?’ William probed.
‘Funny that, despite the pain they inflicted he never told them. He had been dragged away from a students’ tavern in Cambridge, the White Horse I believe, and taken to an underground torture chamber in a nearby castle. They put him to the Question.’
Ella shuddered at the thought of the evils that were done by men in the name of their Lord. ‘There’s still a White Horse in Cambridge, I wonder if it’s the same one.’
‘I’m afraid not. This particular White Horse was a famous meeting place for Protestant reformers who used it to discuss their dangerous ideas in secret. It has long since been demolished.’
‘So what happened to de Quixlay?’ asked William.
‘They broke him down to a quivering, bloody mess. He talked, but he never revealed the name of the organisation he belonged to.’
‘Maybe there was no name to tell,’ William proposed. A simple security measure.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Connegan. ‘But they did appear to have a symbol, a secret sign known only to them. When de Quixlay was captured he had on his littler finger a simple gold signet ring. Cut into the gold surface were three symbols: a triangle, a pentagram and an all seeing eye.’
Ella coughed. She felt her heart beating so hard she feared Connegan would hear it. Connegan looked at her, she was sure he was studying her face, trying to read her mind. She felt the need to say something, anything.
‘To medieval Christians the pentagram symbolised the five wounds of Christ,’ Ella blurted out. ‘But for at least three-thousand years before Christ it was a Greek symbol that represented mathematical perfection.’
‘Greek?’ Connegan observed. ‘I never knew that, very interesting. Anyway, de Quixlay told them all about the book he was seen with. He called it the Biblos Aletheia. It’s Greek too, it means Book of Truths.’
Bursting with questions, Ella looked to William. But he shook his head ever so slightly and she remained silent.
‘De Quixlay described it as a powerful and ancient book that had been protected by the Brotherhood since the dawn of mankind,’ Connegan continued. ‘But it was clear he knew nothing about what the book was actually about. He simply said that he had transported the sacred object from Alexandria to England for his master.’
‘Who was his master?’
‘An Englishman called Oswyn le Bone. Strangely there are no records of such a man as far as I can determine from public records.’
‘Where did he take the book to?’
‘Rockcliffe Castle. It still exists today, at least its remains do anyway. It’s in the grounds of Rockcliffe Hall in Bedfordshire. I looked it up on the Internet.’ Connegan smiled.
William stopped with his wine glass midway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. ‘So what happened next?’
Connegan looked at William oddly, then he turned to Ella and studied her face. ‘Not surprisingly de Quixlay died from his ordeal. The manuscript doesn’t say what happened after that.’
‘But it’s a good bet that the Church went after the book and Oswyn le Bone.’
‘Yes, probably. But I haven’t found anything further about that either. And believe me, I’ve tried all the tricks.’
‘Can we see the manuscript?’
Connegan laughed. ‘I thought you’d ask that. I’m afraid I sold it. Not long after it was returned to me by the police I was contacted out of the blue and was made an outrageous offer.’
‘Who by?’
‘A private collector. What was his name? Oh yes that’s it, Arthur Tempest.’
William and Ella exchanged a look. Connegan folded his arms and viewed the pair through narrowed eyes.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I’ve answered your questions, so why don’t you do me a favour and tell me who you really are and why you’re really here.’
*
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was something about Connegan himself, but William felt there was no reason to deceive the man completely. After all, he could still be useful. William explained the story of James Davidson’s dying wish, the coded poem and the gravestone. But he left out all of the more classified details, and maintained the ruse that he was a detective investigating a suspicious death. Ella kept quiet, keen not to reveal herself.
William passed the note of the decoded message over to Connegan. He scanned over the text, when he looked up his eyes were as wide as saucers. ‘“He hid it from Medici in the crypt, this Atlantean treasure”. Well, well. Medici must be Cardinal Scaramucci Medici. And an Atlantean treasure? Pascal Mark X. So who is, or was, Pascal Mark the tenth?’
‘We’ve no idea,’ William conceded. ‘Our research has drawn a blank.’ He eyed Connegan carefully for a moment. ‘Let me show you something else, I’d like your opinion on it.’ He reached into his rucksack and pulled out the copy of the painting. Unrolling it flat on the table, he used the wine glasses to hold the ends down. ‘This should be right up your street.’
With professional interest, Connegan cast his now serious eyes over the composition. ‘Such detail,’ he opined sounding a little surprised. ‘My first impression is that it’s not unlike an Edmund Blair Leighton. Pity there’s no signature.’
‘The original has a brass plaque on its frame that reads Francis Perryvall, 1517,’ William added.
‘The same year de Quixlay was interrogated,’ Connegan realised. He looked questioningly at Ella who blushed and looked away. ‘But the painting is obviously not as old as that.’
‘It’s not much older than a century according to a friend of mine,’ Ella said.
Connegan pointed to the gold book that the man in the painting held. ‘Is that supposed to be the book, the Biblos Aletheia?’
‘Possibly. We assume so,’ this was from William. He studied Connegan’s facial expressions as the man thought through this new information.
Hovering his face inches from the surface of the painting, Connegan studied the gold book. He shot back up, and said, ‘One moment please, let me get something.’ Briskly, he walked out of the room.
‘I don’t like this,’ William whispered to Ella when Connegan was gone. ‘I’ve told him too much. See the way he reacted over the message on the gravestone? He thinks there’s treasure to be found.’
‘And there is,’ Ella pointed out.
Moments later, Connegan returned holding a large Sherlock Holmes like magnifying glass, a wad of loose printer paper and a pen. He poured over the painting once more, only this time he used the magnifying glass and scrutinised every inch of its surface. Again he lingered over the image of the gold book. William raised an eyebrow at Ella, she shrugged her shoulders.
‘Found something?’ William asked.
‘As a matter of fact I have,’ Connegan said with a satisfied grin. He sat back down and placed the magnifying glass flat on the table. ‘I thought I recognised it when I first saw it.’
‘Recognised what?’
‘Pascal’s triangle. It’s on the cover of the book.’ Connegan could tell by their blank looks that it required further explanation. ‘Pascal was a seventeenth-century mathematician. His triangle is a mathematical arrangement of numbers. At the very top of the triangle we start with a one. Then directly underneath we put two other number one’s to make a small triangle. To make the triangle bigger we follow a simple mathematical rule: each new number is the sum of the numbers directly above it.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ William said frowning. ‘Come again?’
Connegan grabbed the pen and paper. ‘Simpler if I draw it. Firstly, row zero consists of a single number one. Row one below it is merely two number ones together. Lik
e so . . .
1
1 1
‘For every new row, each new number is the sum of the numbers above it to the left and to the right. The first and last number of each new row only has one number above it, always a one, so those values are also always a one. The middle number has two one’s above it. One plus one, so it’s a number two, thus . . .
1 2 1
‘Row three starts with a one, then a three, a three again, then a one.’
1 3 3 1
William nodded his recognition of the pattern. ‘So the fourth line begins with a one. Then one plus three which is four. Then three plus three: six. Then four then one?’
‘Correct.’ Connegan drew out the next three lines of the pattern.
1 4 6 4 1
1 5 10 10 5 1
1 6 15 20 15 6 1
‘This pattern continues for infinity, the triangle just gets bigger and bigger, but the pattern remains the same. The amazing thing is that we find all sorts of mathematical patterns in it. Fractals, natural numbers, prime numbers, Fibonacci, magic elevens, all sorts.’
‘Amazing,’ William said, barely holding back the sarcasm. ‘But I don’t see the relevance.’
‘I do,’ Ella jumped in; she had been studying the painting with the magnifying glass while the other two had been doing their maths. ‘Some of the numbers are wrong.’ She looked up at William with a gleam in her eyes.
‘Let me see,’ Connegan said taking hold of the magnifying glass. ‘Hmm, you’re right. Well, maybe it’s not Pascal’s triangle after all. Wait a minute, it’s hard to see, but I’m sure some of the numbers are in a slightly different style. Pity you don’t have the original, I’d be able to tell from the brush strokes.’
Ella snapped her fingers. ‘It’s another coded message,’ she interrupted. ‘Pascal Mark X. We thought it was a name, we were wrong.’
‘X marks the spot?’ said William.
Ella nodded vigorously.
‘Pascal’s numbers mark the spot?’ Connegan frowned.
‘Yes. Well, the wrong numbers do,’ William concluded. ‘The one’s added later, if you’re right, Ella.’
To compare the numbers they copied down the series from the painting, there were seven rows of numbers in total. Connegan completed seven rows on his own, correct, triangle. After doing a spot-the-difference they found six double digit numbers that did not correspond.
‘How can twelve numbers mark the spot?’ Ella asked.
But William knew the answer; it had been drilled into him during Army basic training. ‘They’re coordinates. Northings and eastings. It’s a map reference.’
‘So how do we find where it is?’ Connegan said impatiently.
‘Simple. Do you have access to the Internet?’
*
The three of them crowded around Connegan’s laptop in his office. The small room was cluttered with books and papers. The state of the art, stylish Mac was sat upon an antique walnut desk. Firstly, William Googled for a UK mapping tool. Quickly he found one and clicked on the link. On the webpage he typed in the first six numbers into the X axis box, then the remaining six into Y axis box.
‘Here we go,’ he said and stabbed down on the return button.
The web page took a second to react, then a satellite map showing the whole of the UK opened up. A virtual red pin dropped onto an area of the country like an arrow. It landed in the countryside, somewhere northwest of London. William span the wheel of the mouse and zoomed in. When he was close enough in to recognise the landscape he laughed.
‘Would you believe it!’ he said.
‘Where is it?’ asked Ella.
‘The hornet’s nest,’ whispered William.
Chapter 27
1627hrs – Wales
In the main conference room at the Defence Laboratories, Max Redwood and three of his junior staff laid out small, wafer thin, tablet computers for each of the delegates around the long smoked glass table. The rectangular room itself was minimalist, a dozen comfortable black leather chairs were positioned around the table. Panoramic false-colour pictures of various viruses and bacteria hung on the longer wall. Opposite it were floor to ceiling windows with a spectacular view over the grounds.
When the door swung open the scientists stood up and greeted the National Emergency Committee members, a collection of politicians, security service staff and senior civil servants. The delegates were quick to notice the strained smiles and the bags under the eyes of the scientists, they looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Their creased lab coats were in stark contrast to the sharp suits worn by the delegates. Col. Ackers was the last to enter along with his secretary, a stern looking older woman with short grey hair and angular features. She sat at the far end of the table and opened up a large silver laptop in front of her.
‘I know it’s been a long few days people,’ Col. Ackers said to the scientists. ‘But please hang in there, this is of the utmost importance to national security. Your work is crucial.’
Max nodded. ‘We’re ready, sir,’ he said and sat down next to his team at the top of the table.
Col. Ackers motioned to his secretary, who began to type the minutes. ‘There’s no need for introductions, let’s get straight to the point,’ he said loudly, casting his eyes over the delegates. ‘Since our last update we have received unconfirmed intelligence that the suspect agent may be released in the next few days. We don’t know where, or how.’ He paused for a moment to let the information sink in. ‘Max, I want your full assessment of the threat.’
‘If you’d all kindly look at your screens, I’ll begin,’ Max said. Remaining seated, he tapped on the screen of his own tablet computer and opened his presentation. ‘What we have discovered is an engineered virus, something totally new. No one on the planet will have any antibodies for it, no resistance, no immediate immunity.’ Using the touch screen controls he flicked through his slides and animations. ‘The virus itself is a coiled, circular strand of RNA, much like a plasmid. And it’s all tightly encapsulated in a phospholipid cell.’
‘Keep the technical terms to a minimum,’ Col. Ackers warned without even looking up from his screen.
Max grimaced and tapped the screen to play a 3D animation of the molecular structure. The delegates’ eyes remained glued to their screens. Some picked them up for a closer look, while others had them propped up on the table at an angle using the lever on the back.
‘It’s a very simple biological structure and similar to Influenza,’ Max explained. ‘And thus, it needs a living host to grow and multiply.’
‘Is it zoonotic?’ one of the more technically minded members asked. A female civil servant in her mid-thirties.
Col. Ackers screwed up his face but said nothing. He looked to Max for the answer.
Suppressing a smile, Max adjusted his glasses. ‘Can it be passed between vertebrate species? Yes,’ he said. ‘Mammals and birds according to our experiments so far. Obviously we have not risked testing it on a human subject.’ Although he had thought of a few people he’d like to try it on. ‘Once the host is infected, our studies show that the virus multiplies exponentially. its lifecycle involves three distinct phases.’ With a gentle tap on the screen, Max started the video footage of the research. Caged animals could be seen in various stages of infection, two scientists dressed in yellow biohazard suits tended to them. In one scene a young rhesus monkey coughed and sneezed. Childlike, it looked innocently into the camera with wide brown eyes.
‘Firstly, the virus replicates in the respiratory system causing cold and flu like symptoms,’ Max described. ‘It is highly contagious during this stage, but not lethal. The second phase is the clever part, but let me explain why. Every time DNA or RNA is replicated there are random errors. With DNA the errors are very rare, only one in a billion after biological proof reading, but they do occur and it is perfectly natural. In fact, evolution depends upon it. However, during RNA replication there is no proof reading process, this increases the chance that any particu
lar nucleotide will be copied erroneously to one in one-hundred-thousand. Replication mistakes in RNA are therefore very common. It’s pretty much how the flu virus changes and evades our immune system ever year.’
‘Fascinating, but what’s the relevance?’ Col. Ackers snapped.
Feeling the heat from the blood that rushed to his cheeks, Max turned to the old soldier. ‘The second phase of the lifecycle is what’s relevant. You see this clever and clearly carefully engineered virus relies on a random replication mutation to alter two specific nucleotide bases of its RNA. When a G in one specific part of the sequence is accidentally copied as an A, and simultaneously at another spot a U is copied as a C, it creates an active gene out of what was originally meaningless genetic code.’ He sat back in his seat and eyed his captive, if somewhat confused, audience.
‘And then?’ Col. Ackers said with a frown.
‘And then boom!’ Max clapped his hands together, some of the delegates jumped. ‘It codes for another virus entirely. One that we have no vaccine for and one that’s deadly.’
‘Which one?’ Col. Ackers probed.
Max tapped on his screen again, another video flashed up on the presentation. It showed the same cute rhesus monkey as before, but this time the sad beast was dying. Painfully. Writhing on the floor of its cage, it was covered in blood.
‘The Zaire Ebola virus,’ Max said solemnly.
There were gasps of shock from the more knowledgeable delegates, while others frowned and looked desperately around the table. The cacophony of a dozen whispers and murmurs filled the room.
‘Please explain the significance of this, we’re not all virologists,’ one of the delegates said loudly, a middle-aged woman with short dark hair and red glasses. The room quietened down, all eyes were on Max.
Max cleared his throat. ‘My apologies. The first recorded outbreak of Ebolavirus was late last century near the Ebola River Valley in what was then called Zaire.’
‘The Congo,’ Col. Ackers added to no one in particular.
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