It didn’t take long for Martin to find Frik Versfeld in the web of information at his fingertips. Once the South African had emerged from the field hospital at the mine, he took his payout and trained for the elite security services. There were images of Frik in the mountains of Pakistan alongside members of the Black Storks, in Russia with the Alpha Group and on civilian training exercises run by ex-US Navy SEALs. After working in several war zones, he re-entered the mining world in Brazil, running the security operation at Mina de Fidalgo.
There were suppressed police reports in the archives, complaints of brutal treatment of indigenous workers, and several women had turned up dead after being summoned to his lodgings. Martin clicked away from the disturbing images, pushing aside his concern for Morgan and Jake. They had dealt with such men before.
But one image in particular made his heart beat faster.
A painfully thin woman stood on the edge of a lush green rainforest, her chin raised in imperious determination. One of her hands lay flat on the bark of a tree, fingers spread out as if she were part of the forest. Aurelia dos Santos Fidalgo, the daughter of the mining magnate, who had recently inherited his empire. The article spoke of her determination to end the destruction of the rainforest by the mining industry and restore the damaged Earth. Frik worked as the head of her personal security, so she must be the true force behind the search for the map to Eden.
Martin frowned as he stared at Aurelia’s face. He struggled to read people in the real world, often confused when the words they spoke did not match their actions or physical gestures. But this woman’s singular purpose was clear. Her words matched her deeds, and her tenacity in her quest would not be stopped. The rainforest behind her looked wild and sinister, not the imagined haven that many considered it to be. ARKANE had faced religious fanatics before, but Aurelia was something different and Martin didn’t quite know what to do with that.
He turned to his happy place, using the keyboard to enter a world of code. He was the master of this domain, and the hours passed quickly as he delved into an ever-widening web of possibilities for the location of the remaining fragments.
Martin started with the links between Macau and Amsterdam, expanding the map of the Portuguese Jewish Diaspora into places where the pieces might have ended up, ranking them according to the genealogy of the most likely families to have carried them.
When he had done as much as he could, he sent everything over to Morgan and Jake for review, along with the information on Frik and Aurelia. They would have to decide the next step in the hunt for the fragments — but Martin felt a pull of curiosity, a sense he had learned to trust over his many years working at ARKANE. Some vital piece of knowledge remained hidden just beyond his reach, and the one thing that Martin hated more than anything was a subject he could not master through his extensive archives.
ARKANE agents hunted down ancient manuscripts, medieval texts, secret libraries and religious relics so that all could be added to the vast storehouse of information held inside a complexity of databases, a tangle of ideas and threads of knowledge. But until every image and scrap of text was digitized, and every artifact scanned and catalogued, it would not be complete. It was Martin’s life purpose to fill the gaps, and he used his hacking ability to stealthily access private collections and secret archives. Director Marietti helped by sending ARKANE agents after physical items, most of which were stored in the highly protected vault deep below his office. There should be an answer in here somewhere.
Martin followed his curiosity and dived into the most ancient manuscripts of the book of Genesis, searching for meaning behind the Tree of Life and translations of the text that might give an insight beyond the standard editions.
He started with the largest organized collection of Hebrew Old Testament manuscripts in the world, housed in the Russian National Library of St Petersburg. Martin accessed the Leningrad Codex, the oldest complete manuscript of the Hebrew Bible dated around 1008 CE and brought up scanned images of the text. His fingers flashed across the keyboard as he delved into the Aleppo Codex, held at the Shrine of the Book in Jerusalem, and then put both images on the screen side by side. He added the oldest Greek version from the fifth-century Codex Alexandrinus and finally, the earliest Aramaic version, the London Palimpsest 5b1.
Martin scanned the translations, speed reading the commentary from different scholars. The frown deepened in his brow as he realized how many different views there were on something as fundamental as how God might have created the world.
The five books of the Pentateuch — Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy — had been created from two primary sources with repeated stories, like the two creation passages, used to separate them.
While it was originally thought that the Yahwist wrote from the time of the kings, perhaps even from the court of Solomon, more recent scholarship placed it during the Babylonian exile of the sixth century BCE. The Priestly aspects of the Pentateuch were generally considered to be created later in the period of exile, or afterward as the ancient Jews codified their religion.
After several more hours of the minutiae of textual analysis, Martin admitted defeat. His true gift was finding connections across diverse sources, not delving deep into a few chapters of one particular faith. He could lose himself in biblical scholarship and religious arguments that raged over centuries — or he could find himself an expert. While Morgan and Jake traced the path of the map, he would focus on finding the location of Eden from a scholarly angle. There was one person he knew that might be able to help him take the next step.
MGM Cotai, Macau
Morgan stepped out of what was possibly the most luxurious bathroom she had ever experienced in what was most definitely the fluffiest hotel robe she had ever worn. Her dark hair hung in wet curls around her face, all traces of ash and smoke washed from her body. The medics had checked her over, but she only had bruises from the fall and some minor burns, nothing compared to her injuries from past missions.
Jake had taken the brunt of the damage this time around. He was resting up in the adjoining room after being released from hospital while they both enjoyed the hospitality of one of the best hotels in Macau. ARKANE didn’t always stretch the budget to this level of extravagance, but Morgan was grateful for the chance to retreat away from the busy city streets.
She walked over to the wall of glass that dominated the Sky Loft room and looked out across the skyscrapers of Macau, each one representing thousands of people come to gamble and shop and experience the excesses of wealth for even a short time. Morgan could just glimpse the Zhujiang River Estuary in the distance, but other than that tiny strip of blue, there was very little of nature here. Much of the land had been reclaimed from the waters with large amounts of rock or cement dumped into the coastline, infilling with clay and soil until the desired height had been reached. More space for rising consumerism, more opportunities to spend, more experiences to enjoy. And who was she to question such desire? Morgan gave a wry smile as she sank down onto the incredibly comfortable king-sized bed.
Her phone pinged with a message. The latest research from Martin Klein.
There was a dossier on Frik Versfeld and pictures of him as a good-looking young man working the mines of South Africa. One image showed him laughing as he worked, and it was hard to reconcile his smiling face with the nightmare of scarred rage who emerged from the flames in the burning church. The man who had tortured and murdered Ines.
Morgan read of Jake’s part in the mining accident and how the injuries shaped Frik’s path into increasingly shady security companies, laid off for violence and abuse until eventually, he was hired for that very brutality.
She sighed as she thought of Jake lying in the next room. They had both been on missions that resulted in death and destruction, they both had to weigh up the greater good — and they both made mistakes. Yet Morgan hoped, on balance, that they managed to stay on the side of the angels. Each must choose their path, and every day brought the opportunity to move toward good or evil. Jake had made a mistake back then, but Frik had chosen his own direction.
She laid the information aside and read about the woman Frik worked for. Aurelia dos Santos Fidalgo, heiress of a mining empire, was dangerously thin, her face pinched, and yet she exuded confidence in official photos with tailored suits and striking makeup that made her look every inch the entitled, wealthy businesswoman.
But there were other photos that Martin had sourced from social media and intelligence reports. Aurelia in baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, bare-faced and wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses at Gaia Insurgent marches in Brazil and other international locations. One picture even showed her in a crowd blockading the mining trucks of her own company. She stood on the edge of the group, out of range of the mainstream media outlets, careful to avoid notice. But no one can escape the phone camera in every pocket these days.
Martin had also included evidence of financial transfers from Aurelia’s private accounts to eco-terrorist organizations. Morgan wondered what the Board of the Fidalgo mining company would think of Aurelia’s true allegiance. It would surely be enough to remove her from the company, and that was powerful information to have.
She put the pictures aside and read about the incredible journeys of the Portuguese Diaspora and the other possible locations for the pieces of the Eden manuscript.
One particular report caught her eye from a most unusual place. Truth it seemed was even stranger than fiction. She would have Martin lay a false trail to keep Frik off their scent for now. It would slow him down and give them time to find the next fragment.
As Morgan read on, she knew that it wouldn’t be long until they left the luxury of this hotel. She reached over and dialed room service. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.
John Soane Museum, London
Martin walked into the grand square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a little wet after his brisk walk from Trafalgar Square at the tail end of a rainstorm. He shook out his umbrella, grateful for both its protection from the weather but also for keeping his fellow Londoners from walking too close. The busy city was his home, but he preferred the quiet solitude of his office and control over his personal space.
He stopped in front of a terraced house with high, arched windows, its white facade enhanced by partial columns in the Grecian style. Statues on the third level balcony looked out over the square with contempt for modernity, as if they could see back to when the painter JMW Turner came to call on the architect Sir John Soane.
But Martin was not here for the past.
Sir Sebastian Northbrook was the curator of the John Soane Museum and also its heir, although the fortune had been gifted to the nation in 1833, so he couldn’t touch the vast resources except to maintain the grand house and its collection.
Martin had met Sebastian on the night Morgan searched the Grand Lodge of England for a piece of the Ark of the Covenant. He shuddered as he remembered the dense smoke and how the flames had lit up the night sky. Sebastian had risked his life to save Morgan and almost died in the conflagration, but somehow Martin had found the strength to pull him out.
A few weeks later, Sebastian had emerged from intensive care and Martin visited him in the day ward. He felt responsible somehow, like a piece of his soul entwined itself with Sebastian’s that night. Since then, he had found himself walking over to the museum at odd hours to check on the hardy old man — and to pick his brain. While Martin had mastered the art of querying databases and linking together ideas across space and time, he still marveled at how one human brain could encompass so much seemingly useless knowledge and still pull out astounding facts or an opinion on possibilities that his own machine creations could not fathom. Sebastian’s unique perspective often helped with a conundrum, and he was also very well connected. Martin was in need of a new perspective on the puzzle of Eden, and he hoped his friend could help.
It was out of hours and the museum was closed, so Martin rang the bell with a series of jabs, a code they had agreed on. Sebastian did not like cold callers, and Martin certainly agreed with that.
A minute later, the door opened and Sebastian beckoned him in. His thin, angular frame seemed more gaunt than usual in his tailored Savile Row suit, his white hair combed into a neat side parting that he had likely worn since his early days at Eton and Oxford. But Martin saw beyond the exterior of the British aristocrat. Sebastian had a wicked sense of humor and a fondness for cognac that he only revealed to those he considered friends.
“Come in, dear fellow.” Sebastian walked ahead of Martin down the hall. “I just put together a cheese platter with more than enough for two. We shall dine in the company of the gods.”
The museum was a strange labyrinth of unusual treasures collected over John Soane’s career. The son of a bricklayer who rose to become a professor of architecture at the Royal Academy and an official architect to the Office of Works, Soane was knighted for his services in 1831. He had redesigned the interior of this building to house his collection and in the daylight, sun streamed in through light wells, reflected in a series of mirrors into even the most hidden nooks and crannies.
Sebastian led the way to the gallery where a small round table sat underneath the watchful gaze of the lion-headed goddess Sekhmet. Casts of classical figures lined the walls, each a representation of an ancient god. They overlooked the pride of the museum, an Egyptian sarcophagus of Seti I from 1370 BCE, purchased by Soane when the British Museum declined it for lack of funds. The translucent alabaster shone under artful lighting, revealing traces of a carving within. The goddess Nut who ruled the sky and the night, protecting the dead as they entered the afterlife.
Sebastian sat down at the table and pulled a perfectly folded napkin onto his lap, indicating that Martin do the same.
The cheese platter was a thing of beauty. Three perfect wedges sat upon a Chinese circular porcelain dish inlaid with midnight blue engraving. Cornish Yarg wrapped in wild garlic leaves, Tunworth Camembert, and Stichelton blue lay next to an artfully arranged selection of crackers and a sliver of quince paste. Two glasses of port sat in the correct glasses next to dainty plates.
There was no rushing Sebastian when it came to cheese, so Martin waited until they had eaten a little and toasted the health of the monarch before explaining why he had come.
“The Garden of Eden,” Sebastian said, with wonder in his voice. “You truly think it might exist?”
Martin shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. But there are archaeological records of ancient gardens in the Middle East. Perhaps it is not so far-fetched to imagine some ancestral Eden.”
Sebastian stood up and walked to the edge of the gallery, his slim fingers clutching the edge of the parapet. By his rigid pose and white knuckles, Martin could see his friend was conflicted, so he waited in silence. That was the best way he knew for allowing people time to process. Sometimes he could sit in silence on his own for many hours, and he was patient enough to do it for a friend.
When Sebastian finally turned, his jaw was set with determination. “There is someone who might be able to help. I haven’t seen her for many years but perhaps it’s time I returned to Paris…”
As his words trailed off, Martin saw a trace of concern pass over his friend’s face. Whoever they would meet on the next step of the journey clearly had some hold over him, and Martin could only wonder what that might be.