the Source (2008) Read online

  the Source (2008)

  Cordy| Michael

  Unknown publisher (2011)

  * * *

  The Source

  Michael Cordy

  *

  PROLOGUE::

  Rome, 1561

  When his eyes scan the small crowd she forces herself not to look away. If he is strong enough to endure this, then she is strong enough to watch.

  He hobbles on bandaged feet, charred and broken by the Inquisition's torturers, as the executioner makes him a final offer: recant and be garrotted mercifully before being tied to the stake, or refuse and be burnt alive. His eyes find hers and, defiantly, he shakes his head. She wants to signal her support and her love, but she cannot move. She is mesmerized by what is happening, and in shock from what he has asked her to do.

  What she has vowed to do.

  The auto de fe is being held at night, in the torchlit courtyard of an anonymous church in the outskirts of Rome. A small group, less than twenty, has gathered round the lone stake. The Holy Mother Church has no desire to publicize this heretic's death - or his heresy. She catches a flash of red in her peripheral vision, but doesn't divert her gaze when the Grand Inquisitor, Cardinal Prefect Michele Ghislieri, steps forward in his scarlet robes. The Grand Inquisitor has 'relaxed' the heretic to the secular authorities to perform the execution so the Holy Mother Church can abide by its maxim: ecclesia abhorret a sanguine, the Church shrinks from blood. But this is still his show. And with fire there will be no blood.

  'Burn his book with him,' the Grand Inquisitor orders. 'Burn the Devil's book with the heretic.' There is a moment of consternation as the executioner and the clerics search him and find nothing. 'Where is it?'

  A jolt of fear surges through her but the condemned man stays silent.

  'Heretic, surrender the book or face the consequences.'

  A bitter laugh. 'What more can you do to me?'

  'Burn him,' orders the Inquisitor.

  The men drag him to the platform and rope him to the stake. They pile the final bundles of wood around the base, then apply torches. As the fire catches, she prays he will suffocate before the flames reach his flesh. Clutching the crucifix he gave her, she holds his gaze until the acrid smoke obscures his face. Only then does she allow the tears to come. As the smoke rises into the night sky and his flesh starts to burn - to cook - the sweet, disconcertingly familiar smell sickens her. His screams are mercifully short, but she takes little comfort from that.

  When the flames are at their height the Grand Inquisitor and his retinue leave. Then the others dissolve gradually into the night. Alone, she waits until only bone, ash and glowing embers are left. Then she approaches the pyre and collects what she can of his remains. As she bends she feels the manuscript concealed in her robes and hopes this 'Devil's book' is worth his torture and agonizing death. And she prays that it justifies the terrifying vow she made to him before he died.

  'In time all will be revealed,' she whispers, as she walks off into the dark night. 'Time reveals all.'

  PART ONE

  The Devil's Book

  Chapter 1.

  Switzerland, four and a half centuries later

  He felt no fear at first, only sadness that it should end like this. He had made a fortune, amassed a portfolio of properties around the world, learnt several languages and bedded more beautiful women than he could remember, yet it seemed meaningless now. He had lived alone and would die alone, unremarked and unremembered, his body fed to animals or buried under concrete in a building site. It would be as if he had never lived, never existed.

  'Kneel in the middle of the plastic sheet.'

  As he knelt, hands clasped as if in prayer, he noted the surgical saw, Ziploc plastic bag and roll of duct tape by the killer's right foot. He didn't need to look up at the Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol in the assassin's left hand to know what was coming. He knew the procedure better than anyone: he had invented it. First there would be two bullets to the head. His left hand would be severed and placed in the Ziploc bag, then his body wrapped in the black plastic sheet and sealed with the duct tape. Finally, a vulture squad would be called to dispose of his corpse, and the killer would deliver his severed left hand to the client as proof of death.

  'You know who I am?' the killer asked.

  He nodded. 'La mano sinistra del diavolo, the left hand of the Devil. The most feared assassin in the world.'

  'My real name. Do you know my real identity? Look at me. Look at my face.'

  It was now that the fear came - paralysing fear. He couldn't look up. He was too frightened of what he would see.

  'Look at me,' the killer ordered. 'Look into the eyes of the man who destroyed your life and damned you to Hell for ever.'

  He looked up slowly. His heart seemed to stop in his chest. The killer's face was his own. As he trembled in terror, the din of fierce barking pierced his nightmare and dragged him to consciousness.

  Marco Bazin emerged slowly from his medicated sleep and opened his eyes, but the guard dogs outside his house still sounded like the hounds of Hell baying for his soul. Panicked and disoriented, he stared into the gloom. At first he didn't recognize his own bedroom: the clinic had filled it with so much equipment it was more like a hospital room. He wiped sweat from his forehead and scalp. His hair, thick for a man in his late forties, had been his one vanity. The surgeons had said it would grow back but had been less optimistic about purging the disease.

  He slowed his breathing and calmed himself. He despised fear. A few short months ago, before he had admitted himself to the exclusive Swiss clinic near his alpine retreat above Davos, he had been the source of fear: la mano sinistra del diavolo. He was renowned for the ruthless efficiency of his kills, and it was said that once a client gave him a name its owner was already dead.

  Now he was about to die.

  Bazin's hand brushed the crotch of his cotton pyjamas, as if reaching for what they had taken from him. The surgeons wished he had come to them earlier, before the aggressive non-seminoma could spread. They'd told him to watch for several symptoms when this last course of chemotherapy was over. But the cancer was only one of his problems.

  As he stared into the dark, listening to the instruments and his breathing, he took stock. He had told no one of his illness and the staff at the clinic had assured him of their total discretion. Yet he knew the whispering must have started. He had turned down three major jobs before he'd entered the clinic, and many other clients had tried to contact him while he had been incommunicado during surgery and chemotherapy. Soon the rumours would harden into conclusions, then actions. Clients would wonder why their calls had gone unanswered; some would suspect he was working for rivals. Enemies would scent blood and seek the opportunity to settle old scores. He may have been a lion once, a king of the jungle, but he was wounded now and the emboldened jackals were circling. If the cancer didn't get him, a bullet would. Either way he was dead.

  The dogs barked again and panic surged.

  For the first time since his childhood Bazin felt fear. Not of dying - the novelty of that had long worn off - but of what lay beyond death. Since diagnosis and surgery he had been forced to reflect on his life and concluded that, in exchange for losing his soul, killing for a living had yielded nothing of real value - only money and its hollow trappings. A chill ran through him. He reached for the string of wooden rosary beads on the side table - a childhood gift, kept more out of sentiment than faith. He focused on the expensive curtains drawn across the window and imagined the looming mountains beyond. Usually their beauty calmed him but now it intensified his loneliness.

  Why were the dogs still barking?

  He shook his head, trying to focus his mind, and checked the clock beside his bed. Three sixt
een a.m. He heard the night nurse murmuring on the landing outside his room, then another, deeper, voice.

  Bazin sat up, dizzy and breathless.

  A man - at least one - was here. In his home. In the middle of thenight.

  It was no surprise that his enemies would come for him when he was weak and defenceless. But how had they found him? No one at the clinic was aware of his profession, and hardly anyone knew the location of this house. But that meant nothing, he realized. Everyone had a price. He considered the people who had tried to hide from him in the past. He had found them. And killed them.

  Fear galvanized him. He had to live. He searched the gloom for something with which to defend himself, but the nurses had cleared everything away, except the equipment and medicines to keep him alive. There was nothing here with which to take a life.

  He listened as the footsteps approached the closed door, something oddly familiar in their irregularity. Ignoring the pain and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, he climbed out of bed. More sweat dripped from his forehead. They dared come for him only because they thought he was weak, half the man he had once been. But he'd show them. He tested the thin string of rosary beads. It snapped. He dropped the beads on the bed, yanked one end of the intravenous tube from the cannula in his wrist, the other from the drip stand, then pulled the tube tight in his hands. He steadied himself, then moved across the room and positioned himself behind the closed door.

  It opened slowly and a dagger of light cut across the rug. He no longer felt sick or weak as he focused on eradicating the threat to his life. The intruder stopped in the doorway, as if considering whether to enter. As soon as the man's head appeared Bazin pulled the garrotte round his neck and twisted it.

  With cheese-wire Bazin could garrotte a victim in seconds, rupturing the jugular and crushing the windpipe. However, the plastic tubing stretched, and as Bazin struggled to tighten it he noticed the man's clothing - and that he was unarmed. Then he remembered the man's gait - his limp. He yanked the intruder round so they faced each other. As he stared into the man's bulging eyes, Bazin froze. He knew why the man had come under the cover of darkness. Not to kill him, but to protect his own identity from prying eyes. He was embarrassed to be seen coming here. And that shamed Bazin.

  He loosened the tubing from the man's neck. 'Leo.' He didn't try to disguise his gratitude. 'I can't believe you came.'

  The man rubbed his throat. 'You're my half-brother, Marco,' he rasped. 'You said you were dying. Of course I came.' His eyes filled with contempt. 'What do you want from me? What could you possibly want from a priest?'

  Now Bazin's gratitude was mixed with anger and something that approximated love. Though larger and more powerful than his elder brother he had always felt in his shadow. Never good enough, always unworthy. He glanced at the rosary on the bed, then at his brother. 'I want redemption. I need absolution before I die.'

  The intelligent dark eyes narrowed. 'You're serious?'

  'Deadly serious.'

  'Then go to confession.'

  'I need to do more than say a few Hail Marys, much more . . .' He explained how he had spent his life. 'I must perform some service for the Church, some penance. Tell me what to do.'

  His brother's eyes looked deep into his, searching, evaluating. 'It no longer surprises me how many sinners come back to the Church at times of crisis. But you, Marco?' He sighed. 'God never gives up on a lost soul, provided their act of contrition is genuine.'

  'Within my power I'll do anything the Church demands.'

  Those dark eyes probed his soul. 'Anything?'

  'Yes,' said Bazin, collapsing to his knees. 'Anything at all.'

  Chapter 2.

  New York, five weeks later

  As soon as the limousine stopped outside the black glass tower in downtown Manhattan, Ross Kelly jumped out, suitcase in one hand, laptop in the other, and ran to the main doors. He had been cooped up in aeroplanes for the last twenty-four hours, and he was late. He dashed through the lobby, jumped into an empty lift and pressed floor thirty-three.

  He studied his reflection in the mirror and frowned. His suit was expensive and, with his tan, height and broad shoulders, should have flattered him, but it looked merely uncomfortable. He had always felt - and looked - better out in the field, wearing Timberlands, jeans and a hard hat, than in the office. He straightened his tie and patted down his unruly sandy hair as the lift pinged and the doors opened. He stepped out and approached a pair of double doors with 'Xplore Geological Consultancy - Specialists in Oil and Gas' etched into the glass. A man in blue overalls was adding another line beneath it: 'A Division of Alascon Oil'. Ross stepped into the reception area. The rumours had been rumbling for months but he couldn't believe so much had changed while he'd been away in the remote Kokdumalak oilfields of southwestern Uzbekistan.

  His personal assistant, Gail, was pacing the floor. As soon as she saw him her face relaxed. 'Ross. Thank God you're here. How was Uzbekistan?'

  'Good, but I'd have got more data if I hadn't had to rush back for this.' He checked his watch: ten twenty-two. 'Where's the meeting?'

  She took his suitcase from him. 'In the conference room. It's already started.'

  'Didn't you tell them my plane was delayed?'

  'They don't care.'

  'What about Bill Bamford?'

  'Gone. Ross, all the old Xplore board have gone.'

  'What about the handover?'

  She lowered her voice. 'There's not going to be one. All that talk about Alascon respecting Xplore's specialist expertise and wanting a partnership was garbage. It's a good old-fashioned takeover. Bill Bamford, Charlie Border and the rest have cleared their desks. They were escorted out of the building this morning.'

  'How about you?'

  'I can get a job anywhere. I only work here because of you.' She smiled. 'So, tell me if you're planning to leave.'

  'You'll be the first to know, I promise.'

  'Good. Now, if you want to save your ancient-oil project you'd better get going. These guys take no prisoners.' She shrugged. 'But I guess you already know that.'

  'Yup.' Ross grimaced. When Xplore had headhunted him three years ago, he had been working as a geologist in Alascon's respected earth-sciences division. Xplore had offered good money but that wasn't why he'd joined the small oil consultancy. As one of the world's biggest oil companies, Alascon offered excellent training, but they were inflexible, arrogant and risk-averse. Xplore's visionary board had offered him the opportunity for genuine exploration and discovery that Alascon couldn't match. Now he'd be working for Alascon again and that troubled him. He smoothed his hair again and walked down the corridor to the conference room.

  As he approached, he heard his own voice. He stopped and peered through the glass. The lights were dimmed but he could see three Alascon executives sitting round the table, watching a plasma screen on which he was presenting his ancient-oil theory. He didn't 11 THE SOURCE recognize two of them: an older, bald guy with round glasses, and a freckled man with curly, greying ginger hair. At the sight of the third, a blond man in a charcoal grey suit, his heart sank. George Underwood was the main reason he had left Alascon. As Ross studied his old boss he couldn't help noticing that his suit was immaculate.

  On screen, a sulphurous, molten ball of fire rotated in the blackness of space. Vast meteorites, like red-hot missiles, rained down on it, scarring and deforming its already cratered surface. The charred planet seemed the last place in the universe where life could survive - let alone take hold. Ross heard his voice again, calm and authoritative, describe the computer-generated images: 'In its infancy, four point five billion years ago, Earth was a primeval inferno, bombarded by asteroids and comets, its surface scorched by ultraviolet radiation while volcanic eruptions spewed noxious gases into the primitive atmosphere. But these asteroids and comets that rained down on our planet were loaded with amino acids, vital for the formation of life. Even today, forty thousand tons of meteorites fall to Earth every y
ear. More than seventy varieties of amino acids have been found inside these space rocks, eight of which are the fundamental constituents of proteins found in living cells.'

  The screen showed a spectacular impact.

  'Like sperm bombarding an egg, these seeds of life rained down on our planet and, amazingly, one - just one - of those rocks triggered a reaction, a spark that germinated the earliest forms of bacteria somewhere on Earth. Equally amazingly, they thrived. Evidence now indicates that all life on this planet - including each of us - evolved from that one impact four and a half billion years ago.'

  The screen shifted again showing fossil-imprinted rocks from Issua in Greenland and the Ustyurt plateau in Uzbekistan, near where Ross had just been working.

  'These early life forms became fossils, which, in turn, became fossil fuels - oil. We now know that oil can be found in even older deposits than was at first believed. And it's this ancient oil that we should be focusing on.'

  'Can you believe this?' said Underwood to the older guy. 'Ancient oil. I thought all oil was pretty damn ancient.'

  His laugh irritated Ross as he entered the room. 'By ancient, George, I mean oil that's a quarter of a billion years older than any previously discovered oil.'

  Underwood pressed a button on the remote control and the screen reverted to the company logo. Then the window blinds rose, revealing the skyline of uptown Manhattan, gleaming in the May sunshine. He made a show of consulting his watch, then got up to shake Ross's hand. 'Long time no see.' He smiled. 'Let me introduce you to my colleagues.'

  Ross learnt that the greying-ginger guy was Brad Summers, the new financial officer, while the older man was David Kovacs, Xplore's new boss, responsible for assimilating the consultancy into Alascon.

  'So, ancient oil, Ross,' said Underwood. 'You really believe it exists?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Why, Dr Kelly?' asked Kovacs.

  Ross sat down. 'At the turn of the millennium the oldest known oil was one point five billion years old. However, we've recently found deposits in Uzbekistan at least two hundred and fifty million years older than that. The hydrocarbons in this ancient oil are a product of creatures living on Earth at least three point two billion years ago. This indicates that exceptionally old rocks contain untapped reserves that, until now, haven't been a priority for oil prospectors. It's only a matter of time, though, before others in the industry take an interest.'