Ibiza Chapter One - The Recruit

 

Ibiza      

 Chapter One - The Recruit

 

The employee strolled his way to the City of London office. Still trying

 to come to terms with the murder he had recently witnessed.

 “Come on, get in. I’ll save you a walk to the office.” An elegant grey

 haired man spoke from the opened window of an electric-blue Ferrari,

 halted by the kerb.

 

Jonathan-Paul Von Neumann’s startled eyes and dropping jaw went

 through the motions of a silent film star, unintentionally miming Buster

 Keaton under threat.

 

  “Come on, don’t be shy, not all CEO’s are carnivorous.” Said his

 boss David Ellington-Jones, who liked to describe himself as

 ‘Something in the City’.

 Jonathan-Paul looked up at the gathering thunder clouds and watched

 a flash of lightning as the storm threatened.

 “OK, thanks.” His hand shook slightly as he opened the door.

 He seemed to have been waiting for Jonathan-Paul, or Paul, as he

 preferred to be known. Falling into the car’s cream leather seat that

 wrapped itself around him.

 Paul’s nostrils were attacked by the distinctive smell of leather that

 was matched by the abuse of his boss’s after-shave and sickly smile.

 Pulling out, the engine whined rather than growled. The snarl came

 from the irate bus driver who had just been carved up like an old Shire

 horse before a thoroughbred.

 Paul watched a damp paw move easily through the gears. The pink

 striped blue shirt cuffs protruded through a disgustingly expensive

 Saville Row midnight blue suit. The cufflinks with an unusual device as

 a design, caught Paul’s eye. He had seen that before accidently, on

 documents he wasn't supposed to view.

 The manicured hand with effeminate grace gently rested on Paul’s

 knee.

  “Oops, sorry, Ferrari’s are not known for being spacious.” David

 lied.

 Reluctantly, the hand was dragged away. His boss had the nickname

 ‘elegant’ Jones, the fifty year old had a harmony with his vehicle and

 the traffic as he weaved effortlessly through London streets.

 "Electric-blue must be customised and non standard?" Paul

 enquired.

Ellington-Jones merely responded with a sickly mile.

“How’s the good lady wife?” Paul struggled for words.

 “In Italy, for her culture, something you would appreciate with your

 degree in Fine Art. She has her culture, I have mine.”

 “Archaeology.” Paul tried to correct.

 “Of course, all those hours looking for a soul mate that may be

 prowling the British Museum?”

 “I am serious about archaeology, did you know that in the Third

 Millennium by Euphrates river they built a temple……”

  “Yes, yes all very interesting.” Ellington-Jones stifled a yawn.

 “What I really want to discuss is your promotion prospects.”

 Ellington-Jones flashed a pass at the security guard at the entrance of

 the executive car park.

 “I require you to come to an interview at ten-thirty, it will be to your

 advantage.”

 David Ellington-Jones gave Paul the slightest wink and a nod as they

 made their separate ways to plush and ordinary offices.

 

 “Hello Cindy.”

 “Hello Paul, pretty boy, what name are you using today, Paul or Jon-

 Paul?”

 “Paul, today.”

 A strikingly beautiful black girl sat at the entrance to their office,

 coffee cup in one hand, half-eaten doughnut in the other. Her eyes

 were fixed on an article about make-up in a popular women’s

 magazine. Her keyboard had been thrust back, not as a safety

 measure to avoid a deluge of coffee, but for reading space.

 Cindy looked around for somewhere to place her coffee mug, she

 didn’t want to turn the pages with sticky fingers. Black eyes flicked up

 at the computer screen.

 “So what have you done to get an interview with the boss? Oh, you’re

 getting the sack!” Black eyes held Paul.

 “Dunno,” he shrugged.

 “Don’t be too enthusiastic will you, it could be catching. If I got extra

 money every time I covered your mistakes, I would be a rich

woman!”

 “I love you Cindy, even when you’re being sarcastic.”

 She flicked her platted hair full of beads.

“If you loved me you’d come to one of the church services I go to.”

 Paul went quiet at first.

 “That’s not the type of tea and crumpet I am looking for!”

 Cindy rolled jet black eyes to the heavens.

 “What’s with all this archaeology mumbo-jumbo you are into, you will attract

 something really nasty one day.”

 “Yeah, a great big horned devil, hiding behind the corner, ready to jump on me

  if I don’t go to church. I suppose I’d be OK if I’d done a black belt in Karate

 like you?" Paul’s face went crimson.

 Paul looked at Cindy, mentally undressing her, but she was saving

 herself for the ‘right man’, funny lot these Christians.

 “If I get promoted I’ll take you to dinner.”

 If you get promoted it will be because of me,” she went back to her

 magazine.

 “Oh!” Coffee began to soak the magazine.

  “Now that could have been your computer!”

 “Shut-up Paul and stop laughing!”

 “Looks like the chat-up king is well into his stride this morning?” A

 voice came from a corner. Charles, the alleged IT expert with a blond

 quiff, put his feet on a desk and thrust his thumbs under red braces.

 “Don’t forget to ask for more money.”

 News of Paul’s interview had travelled quicker than Charles could

 down a pint of lager.

 “Work hard and the office idiot gets noticed, maybe I’d get

 somewhere if I had good looks, oh now I get it. Have a nice time

 sweety.” Charles chuckled to himself.

 Paul stuck his hand under running tap water, he slicked his hair and

 looked in the mirror of the marble floored toilet.

 “You idiot Neumann !” He looked at the wet patch on his dog-tooth

 trousers, rushing, he had splattered water. Only minutes to go.

 Paul stood before Ellington-Jones’s secretary, his hand covering the

 wet patch on his trousers.

 Peggy, a middle-aged woman in a ‘Jaeger’ suit, lifted herself from a

 swivel chair and ushered him into an office with soft pile cream

 oloured carpet and the smell of his boss’s aftershave, it reminded him

 of a Moroccan bordello, whatever a place like that was supposed to

 smell like. It even had the furniture to match.

 One side of the office was all window that gave fine views of the City

 of London.

 Some walls lined with shelves full of books, to Paul’s surprise there

 were a number of rare editions on antiques and archaeology, well they

 looked rare, he thought to himself. The one by Sir Richard Burton

 about Arabic culture certainly had the value of a few months salary.

 

He pulled out one leather bound old tome, obscene pornographic

 prints, ‘do people do that ! His eyes widened in shock, he replaced the

 valuable book.

 On one wall hung some obviously rare and expensive Victorian

 paintings.

 Arabist theme again. An older painting hung alone, Rembrandt's

 Belshazzar's Feast painted around 1635. Original in the National

 Gallery, Paul took a closer look, the copy was superb. He loved this

 painting, it depicted King Belshazzar of Babylon who took sacred

 golden and silver vessels to a drunken feast. His predecessor,

 Nebuchadnezzar had removed them from the Jewish Temple in

 Jerusalem. Using the holy objects Belshazzar and his court praised the

 gods of gold, silver ,bronze iron, wood and stone.

 At that moment a hand appeared from nowhere and wrote Aramaic

 words on the wall. Not knowing what they meant the King sent for an

 exiled Jew, Daniel.

 Warning of arrogant blasphemy Daniel translates; God hath numbered

 and finished thy kingdom, weighed it in the balances and found it

 wanting. A divided Kingdom that will be given to the Medes and

 Persians.

 That night Belshazzar was murdered and Darius the Mede became

 King. A warning written on a wall, an apt message for today thought

 Paul.

 He moved across to a large antique desk, probably of North African

 origin, an opened letter caught his eye. The top left hand corner

 contained a logodesign he recognised immediately, the Egyptian Eye of

 Horus, but somehow it didn’t look quite right, then he remembered

 Ellington-Jones’s unusual cuff links.

 The door began to open and Paul leapt back before Belshazzars Feast.

 “You like my works of art”

 Paul sensed that he had somehow been watching him all the time.

 “This one here, for instance, it is so good, it could almost be the

 original. Myself, I like The Finding of Moses by Edwin Long.”

 “You like naked ladies then?” Ellington-Jones turned up his nose, his

 eyes sparkled but his mouth appeared cruel and cooked.

 A hand was thrust out for Paul to shake, it was damp and soft, a piece

 of wet Cod had more substance. He clasped Paul’s hand in a strange

 way as if to convey something.

 “Just call me David.” His eyes bore directly into Paul’s as he

 motioned him to sit, sinking into the chair that made a whoosh of

 escaping air. Very comfortable but it was immediately apparent that

 the occupant was put at a disadvantage.

 Whomever sat opposite was higher, emphasising their authority.

 Ellington-Jones glanced at a CV, “Jonathan-Paul Ignacio Von

 Neumann, degree, parents Spanish and German. Mother a lawyer and

 father a Government scientist.” Speaking in a half tone.

 “That’s not in my CV!”

 “We have ways to find out about background,” the boss brushed

 Paul’s annoyed surprise aside.

 Nosey old git, thought Paul.

 “Excellent, were you named after the American film star, you do bear

 a remarkable likeness?”

 Oh yeah I looked like him as a baby, where’s this creep leading to?

 Paul tried to keep a blank expression.

 “Just a coincidence.” Paul's voice had a high tone.

 “Like our meeting this morning, Paul I might tell you that there is no

 such thing as coincidence.”

 “Like Jung’s Synchronicity?”

 “Quite so.” The Boss smiled approval.

 “With those film star looks I suppose you are constantly fending off

 the young ladies?”

  “One would wish, Sir, the only problem is that……” His voice faded.

 “Just call me David.” He repeated and ran his tongue around moist

 lips, eyes devouring.

 Leaning across to an office intercom, he spoke softly, “Peggy, bring in

 some Coffee please. Sorry Paul, do you prefer tea?”

  “Coffee will be fine sir.”

 “David.”

 OK Mr Smooth I’ll call you David.

 Peggy, nicknamed Miss Efficiency arrived with the coffee, then left

 immediately with a knowing look on her face.

 “How do you like it?”

 “Black, two lumps of brown sugar.” Paul thought of Cindy, he didn’t

 like the suggestive tone of his Boss’s question.

 “Ever thought of becoming an archaeological adventurer?”

 Ellington-Jones’s hand swept towards his eclectic book collection.

 Paul noticed Harvard Professor John E Mack’s controversial book on

 Alien Abductions. Strange book for his Boss to have. Alien Abduction,

 what nonsense!

 “Only in my dreams, that’s for Hollywood, not real archaeology.”

 “Do you like my leather….chairs?” He handed Paul the coffee

 poured into Royal Doulton china.

 “Become close to me and I may give you access to this rare collection

 of books, I might even lend you my beloved work on the Lost

 Continent of Atlantis. Now to finance and promotion.”

 That’s three lots of fiction already, thought Paul.

 “You are accurate in your view that the World’s economy crashes

 every 55 to 70 years. The Kondratiev wave can be traced the 200 or so

 years since present day records began. If one looks at the price of

 wheat and gold, the cycle goes back to the time of the Pharaohs.”

 How on earth did he find out I believed that?

 “After the crash, the Great and the Good introduce things to the

 masses that otherwise would be rejected, more coffee?” Ellington-

 Jones ran thin fingers through silver and blond hair.

  “Rejected?”

  “Yes, cash will disappear one day, then everything will be

 electronic.”

 “What about the beggars on the streets, and for that matter anybody

 else who deals in cash, charity boxes for instance?”

 “Tough luck, anyway you will still be able to donate to your favourite

 charity electronically.” A sickly smile arrived on the Boss’s face again.

 “So it’s pass around the electronic device in church, rather than a

 wooden plate?”

 “Precisely!”

 “What’s this got to do with my promotion, if you don’t mind me

 asking?”

 “Of course not sweet boy, those hard headed rough types in your

 office have no inkling of what’s to come. Your intelligence and education have

 given you an insight. That is one of the reasons I have chosen you. The

 yuppies you work with are mere tools of the system. After the crash, all

 will begin again on the level, well not quite everybody. The elite group

 to which I belong will be financially protected. Secure in the

 knowledge that they are the real World leaders. Perhaps one day you

 may even be invited to join the enlightened few.”

 Paul’s eyes widened, he blinked. He had just heard the equivalent of

 electronic Fascism on a world scale. Where was this so called

 interview leading?

 “That sounds like a conspiracy to take over the World?” His coffee

 cup rattled in the saucer, he tried not to spill the black liquid.

 “No Paul, just a natural order. Democracy is just a talking shop for

 the media. Which we control anyway. Hearts and minds Paul, hearts

 and minds.” David Ellington-Jones’s eyes became glazed, staring at an

 imaginary point in the distance, like an icon in a Nazi or Maoist idealogical

 poster.

 “The other reasons I have been chosen?” Paul moved the coffee cup

 closer to his mouth and gulped the black liquid.

 

“I want you to sleep with me.” Said David impassively.

 

Paul coughed, spilling hot coffee over his new dog-tooth trousers, he

spluttered and Brazil’s finest poured from his nose.

  “Allow me.” David rushed to Paul’s trousers with a handkerchief.

 “No, no it’s OK, they were old anyway.”

 Ellington-Jones returned to his elevated position behind his desk.

 “Well, I could make it all worth your while.” His boss remained

 unruffled.

 

The words villainous pervert crossed Paul’s mind.

 “What happens to those who do not agree with the new financial and

 political system?” Paul tried to move the subject away from the sexual.

 Ellington-Jones rolled a large Cohiba, Havana cigar between long

 fingers, he stroked the brown phallic shape suggestively. Smiling, he

 pulled a contraption from his desk drawer. Paul’s eyes widened at the

 miniature guillotine set on the desk.

 

“Those that don’t agree with the New World System?” The little

 blade slid down the guillotine and took off the end of the cigar with a

 thud. Lighting up the shaft he smiled at Paul and blew smoke in his

 direction.

 “They will be taken care of!” Paul stared at the miniature guillotine.

 “So what do you say? You will never want for money, knowledge that

 you will be secure during the coming changes, when everybody else

 will suffer white knuckle fear. You can drive my Ferrari, I may even

 buy you a Porsche 911. Foreign travel, visits to your beloved

 archaeological sites. Girlfriends, yes, girlfriends, perhaps you will let

 me watch you with them?” He said with a wink.

 “Importantly you must be my partner, only my partner, when I

 demand it. The girlfriends will be just for fun. Super-models, as many

 as you want? You will join my associates, like-minded souls, men of

 breeding, intelligence, art and culture. There are parties, with chains

 and leather and everything to satisfy one’s needs. Every fantasy and

 more, you will enjoy pleasures that you never thought possible. Pain,

 ecstasy and I am not talking drugs, but in the end you will be mine, and

 mine only.” Ellington-Jones was already excited and licked

 his lips.

 

A profound calm descended over Paul, he possessed a mental clarity

 experienced for the first time.

 “Sir.”

 “David, please!”

 “David, in a short time, I have thought deeply and carefully about

 your generous offer.” Fascist, perverted pig, crossed his mind.

 “Unfortunately, I will have to decline it, however much it appeals to

 my adventurous nature.” He grasped at trying to sound grateful, he

 was the one suffering white-knuckle fear.

 “Our conversation has reminded me that I should return to an

 academic world where I am best suited. I truly wish that you will not

 be offended by my reaction?”

 

Sado-masochistic parties, bribery, he wondered what his boss got up

 to and with whom? Sell his soul to a bunch of madmen trying to create

 a Fourth Reich to imprison the World. What galled him most was the

 perversion, the suggestion, he would agree to diabolical sexual acts.

 When he became the latest plaything that became a bore, he would be

 discarded?

 “Therefore, I believe it would be too difficult to continue in your

 company, please accept this as my resignation.” May you rot in hell, I

 hope the pervert cannot read minds?

 

David Ellington-Jones’s face remained impassive. His eyes looked

 cold, yet they calculated faster than any computer.

  “I accept your resignation, you will receive a cheque for the

 termination of your services. You must tell your friends and colleagues

 that you have decided to change the direction of your career.” His face

 had become like a waxwork mask as he puffed on the oversize cigar.

 “If anything of our conversation gets out, you will regret it for the

 rest of your life. You will be left alone, but it will be your family who

 suffer, do you understand?”

 

Paul nodded, he put his hand on his knee, his leg started to tremble

 again.

 “C’mon man, have you no ambition? Festering away in some

 university, when you have the chance to be someone!”

 “Yessir, but I……..”

 “Paul you are naïve, without patronage, one gets nowhere. It doesn’t

 matter how able or clever one is, without accepting the system, the

 way things really get done. One ends up a lonely voice in the

 wilderness. The system, Paul, works for you, not against you. Accept

 it, relax and enjoy. Then let the profane gaze up at you and wonder

 how you rose to the heavens like a rocket.”

 “A bit like the Mafia then?”

 “Paul, dear boy. Surprisingly, that is, a brutal and accurate analogy,

 the World is indeed run like the Mafia, you would do well to learn this

 lesson that I am trying to convey to you.”

 “Yessir. I mean yes David."

 

David Ellington-Jones took an expensive fountain pen from the inside

 of his jacket. He wrote on the cheque book before him, tore out the

 check and handed it to Paul. The novice’s eyes widened, he probably

 wouldn’t need to work for at least three years, thoughts of

 archaeological research poured into his mind.

 Smiling he said, “I did not expect such generosity.”

 “Can I not change your mind? I have strong feelings for you.”

 Paul didn’t hear a thing, digits swam before his eyes.

 “Here is my private card, if you ever need help. Well you know where

 to find me.”

 "Now can I not tempt you with a finest single malt?"

 " OK David, just a small one." Paul gulped.

 Ellington-Jones pressed a button on his desk and a small door to a

 cabinet opened by the book shelf. "This one is particularly rare."

 Ellington-Jones withdrew a bottle and poured a large measure for

 Paul.

 

He sipped the elixir. It was something quite devine and he was

 assaulted by a complexity of flavours. It had a definite peaty taste but

 was more subtle than a Laphroig.

 Ellington-Jones slowly paced his office like a hungry denied panther. "I will

 remind you not to repeat what you have heard today. I also request

 that you reconsider my offer." Ellington-Jones sensed his prey

 weaken.

 

"Just think of the opportunities that will....." Ellington-Jones stopped

 mid sentence. Paul looked at the stone cold eyes that starred blankly

 forward. Ellington-Jones dropped forward like a felled tree. Hitting

 the thick pile carpet. He made little noise. The only sound came from

 the whisky glass bouncing off the leg of furniture.

 

A white faced Paul moved forward to assist then stopped in his tracks.

 A Brasilian Matis tribe blow-dart protruded from Ellington-Jones

 neck. He knew of the Matis tribe, they used Curare poison. This one

 must be a particularly fast acting.

 

Then he froze, a tarot card lay next to the body. It depicted a tower

 struck by lightning with people falling from the tower. The card

 carried the name 'The Tower' and the number 16 in Roman Numerals.

 Paul hadn't a clue about its significance.

 He looked about him, a calender on Ellington-Jones desk said 7th July

 1995.

 

Paul panicked and wondered what to do, he had now been a witness to

two deaths and this one looked very suspicious. The office must have a

 CCTV that recorded events.

 

His first reaction, flee.

 

The doors were closed and he remembered Ellington-Jones telling his

 secretary, Peggy, he was not to be disturbed on any account. He

 shivered again.

 

He left the office looking around him as he went. The lift swiftly

 descended to his office complex.

 "You look a bit flustered Paul!" Said Cindy.

 "Yes." Came the reply.

 Paul left quickly, the voice of Charles followed him. "Not man enough

 for the boss?" Charles was convulsed in laughter. Cindy just shook

 her head.

 

He took no time in exiting the building and heading for the nearest

 Underground station. Destination uncertain. Should he head for

 friends ? His best friend Robert and his girlfriend Anna. Would they

 give him shelter once the heat was on? On, it surely would be, he was

 the last with Ellington-Jones, when would the secretary raise the

 alarm? Did he have hours or minutes? A cold sweat covered him.

 Paul looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since his

 boss had been felled by a mysterious blow dart. He matched towards

 the nearest underground.

 

Synchronicity struck again. His mother's Spanish bank loomed up

before him. Their sole branch in the City of London, housed in an old

charming period building, not large but discrete. Beads of sweat grew

on his brow, as he tapped his top pocket. The cheque was still there.

 

He again looked at his watch and marched in. It was relatively quiet.

 He presented himself at a counter.

 The smartly dressed gent looked obviously Spanish to him. His

 questions were reciprocated in his mother's native tongue. The cheque

 Ellington-Jones had made out was in the company's name. As he left

 the bank seven minutes had passed.

 

Did he return to his flat ? A small place that only contained a cheap

 television and some clothes. He carried on to Bank Station glancing at

 the first edition of the evening paper. Nothing in that, well there

 wouldn't be, Ellington-Jones demise was just before the paper went to

 print. Stop being paranoid he thought to himself.

 His weekly travel card would take him to Ruislip Gardens where his

 best friend Robert lived. Once on the Central Line train he retrieved a

 discarded newspaper. Then hid behind it all the way to his destination,

 occasionally peering over it to spot an accuser sounding alarm at his

 discovery. He hastily left Ruislip Gardens and headed for Robert's

 house. A classic semi-detached surburban that he had made a shrine to

 Art Deco.

 

He nearly tripped over a cat as he made his way up the drive. The

thing made an unpleasant scream and hid in a corner. Paul pressed the

 bell and prayed Robert would be at home. No answer. He leant against

 the wall in the porch and closed his eyes. He was awoken from his

 semi-slumber,"That bloody cat again! I'll get you for doing your

 business in my garden!"

 

A fit looking young man with longish, curly dark hair strolled up the

path.

 "Hello mate, what do I owe this pleasure? Blimey you look like you

 have seen a ghost. For gawd's sake come in."

 Paul sat in the kitchen nursing a coffee. He related the events of the

 last couple of hours. Robert stood there, mouth open, aghast.

 "You are going to have to go to ground, what do they call it? Off Grid. How many in your world of work know we are friends?

 "None, I don't believe, except the boss, he seemed to know

 everything."

 

"OK matey, stay here for a couple of days, then we will have to find a

 way to move you on."

 "But where?" Said Paul.

 "Dunno yet, I have already put my thinking cap on." Robert ran his

 fingers through his hair in exasperation.

 Paul looked at his watch again.

 "Whatever you do, don't go out. Don't stand close to any windows

 where you can be seen. If policeman plod eventually pays a visit.

 Crawl under the spare bed upstairs!"

 Paul managed a half smile at that advice. He continued to chew at his

 fingernails, something he rarely did. Ten minutes later Paul was in the

 spare bedroom, lying on the bed and starring at the ceiling.

 

 

 

His eyelids suddenly became very heavy and he drifted off as he

 remembered the events at the British Museum.

 “I was right!” Paul startled the other visitors to the Egyptian section

 of the British Museum. They looked at each other with raised

 eyebrows as Paul spoke aloud to himself.

 

  “You alright, Paul old lad?” An attendant recognised the regular.

 “Oh, hello Eric, it’s just that Wajid Eye painted on the wooden

 sarcophagus.”

 

  “So what lad, you’ve seen that a thousand times before.”

  “I have just seen a corrupted version on some important financial

 papers."

 “You'll get the tin-tack old lad?” The attendant used cockney

 rhyming slang for the sack. Or let go, the American term was becoming

 popular.

 I was in a meeting with a couple of colleagues and a boss. A temporary

 secretary rushed in and dropped some papers on the floor. I rushed to

 help that's when I saw a couple of confidential papers. I pretended that

 I saw nothing at all.

 "It’s not like the original, it’s corrupted.”

 “The sack or the eye?”

 “The eye, it was on some books as well.”

 “Corrupted eh?” Eric’s bushy eyebrows rose to meet his peaked cap.

 “We get a few of those in here, I can tell you. Some recently, very well

 dressed they were, asking all types of daft questions. Said they

 belonged to some special group or other, made copious notes. A right

 bunch of weirdos, if you ask me.”

 “Recently!” Paul rubbed his mouth with his hand.

 “Yes old lad. I know the type, we get them every few years or so.

 Into Black Magic or some secret outfit, they like to plagiarise

 Egyptology, claim their society goes back to Ancient Egypt. Then a

 couple of years later they are in the Sunday papers, involved in

 ritualistic sex and worshipping Hecate. Bloody well spoken I tell you."

 “I bet they pinched that from Shakespeare? Sound like a regular

 bunch of nutters?” Paul rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his

 head.

 “Yeah old lad, but not this latest lot. Smart but sinister, a couple of

 them smelt like gangsters. The sort of heavy types you saw in the East

 End during the 60’s.”

  “A bunch of Nazis then?” Paul laughed.

 Eric rubbed his chin, then stuck his fingers in the back of his cap and tilted it

 forward with a slight shake of his head.

 “You know that’s it! The aura they gave off, some looked the part too. Tall,

 fierce, with steel-blue eyes close together. They had purpose alright.

Wouldn’t wanna meet them on a dark night. The hair on the back of

 my neck stood up!”

 “The same as the Hecate lot a while back?”

 “Nah, this lot were into the fine detail, not mumbo-jumbo.”

 “By the knicking of our thumbs.”

 “Do what old lad?”

 “Sorry Eric, I was trying to quote Shakespeare, you know, The

 Scottish Play!

 SSSsssshhhh !”

 “Well with this Nazi lot I felt, if you crossed ‘em, you’d be at the bottom of the

 Thames with concrete shoes.”

 

 “Or hanging from Blackfriars Bridge with bricks in your pocket.” Paul

 recalled the death of a banker some years before.

 “Fancy a cuppa? I am well into my tea-break already.”

 “No thanks Eric, I’m going for a wander.”

 

 

Paul passed  Italian tourists chattering like a monkey house and

 jabbing their fingers into the Rosetta Stone, trying to make some point

 or other. “They should put it in a glass case, and the Rosetta Stone. “

 Paul mumbled.

 

He later discovered the acids from the skin wouldn't affect the stone as

 it was made of granite. He still thought it should be in a case with the

 glass preventing inquisitive fingers.

 

He sat on a wooden bench in front of a huge granite bust of Ramesses

 II. Some smiling Japanese tourists passed, taking pictures of

 everything. A couple of petite oriental girls were taking photos of each

 other before the exhibit. Paul leapt to his feet and offered to take one

 of them together. They nodded with happy faces. He would be their

 guide, then later to a restaurant, and after, back to their hotel

 and, who knows? He could afford it now. The girls bowed with a semi-

 curtsey, said thank you and went on their way as if Paul was history,

 which he was.

 He looked at Ramesses II, “fat lot of help you are, I should have

 gone with Eric for a cuppa?” Paul headed off to a corner where Eric

 would likely be sitting.

 

 

“I’ll take up that offer of a cup of tea.”

 “Allo young master Paul, back again, a bit keen of late aren’t ya?”

 Eric the British Museum attendant looked up in surprise, he had been

 half dozing.

  “I come to this corner when I need some solace and not distraction.”

  “Come on then, I need a brew myself. Oi Fred, can you take over

 here for a short while?” Requested Eric.

 “Well, come back this year won’t you.” Said Fred, tall thin and

 lanky looked as if he should be one of the 3,000 year old exhibits,

 rather than an attendant. His knowledge about the museum was

 legendary.

 

They walked past white painted  temporary wooden panels behind

 the Egyptian Section, the sound of workmen hammering somewhere

 spoilt the feeling of the museum.

  “They got big plans for this place, complete reconstructing, they even

 want to build a central atrium in a few years time. They may even take

 up your suggestion to put the Rosetta Stone behind glass.”

 “That’ll be the day." Said Paul.

 "Oi, what's your caper?" Came a loud voice. Another attendant ran

 after someone he couldn't catch.

 “These workmen get in some funny places. Somebody could

 trip over those” A pair of legs were protruding out from boarding.

 “What the…….. it’s Doctor Andrews.” Eric’s eyebrows had met the

 peak of his cap again. Paul followed an almost quick Eric.

 The respected researcher, lay there, garrotted by cheese-wire. The

 body lay in an unusual way. Pointing east-west, one leg had been

 crossed over the other, like the number four. Personal effects were

 strewn around the upper body. A wallet had been rifled through

 although it appeared that no money or cards had been taken.

 A couple of letters had been taken out of his jacket and the contents

 discarded.

 

  “Stay here lad, I’ll go and fetch the law!” Eric hurried off puffing, the

 result of too many cigarettes.

 The right arm and fingers seemed to be pointing or grasping at some

 imaginary object in the distance. Lying next to the still warm body was

 a Tarot card. No.12, ‘The Hanged Man’, he read somewhere the card

 had a meaning something like, sacrifice and service, yet the face on the

 card was smiling, unlike the late Dr Andrews whose tongue was

 protruding and blue, the eyes were staring into a vacant space. The

 card had another meaning when reversed, but he could not remember.

 Forensics, Paul thought, don't touch anything. Dr Andrews' effects lay

 about like detritus. Paul bit his lip then patted his pockets.

 

Relief, the thin nylon gloves he used to look at ancient documents

 when given the chance were still in a back pocket. His inquisitiveness

 got the better of him, dead body or not he patted the lower pockets of

 the academic's 1970's style jacket. Nothing, people began to gather at

 a distance, Eric returned and shooed them away.

 

"Police on their way old lad, you shouldn't be touching the body." Paul

 held up his now gloved hands. Eric just shook his head. Right at the

 bottom of the inside lining, Paul felt a crackle of paper. There in a

 pocket where it would not be suspected, was a letter. The skin on his

 high forehead crinkled into a frown. He detected a faint smell of

 Hashish, Dr Andrews? Can’t be, he had the reputation for a liking of

 cask conditioned ale, more commonly known as ‘real’.

  That would be careless for an attacker to smell of Hashish.

 Paul looked about him and bit his lip. Paul opened the unsealed letter

 and removed a single sheet of A4 paper. He looked at the title as he

 unfolded the letter. ‘Atlantis and the new Dawn of the Eye of Horus’.

 There staring back at him was a corrupted Egyptian Eye of Horus.

 Paul’s mind devoured the contents. Member No. 1776 ‘ Imperative,

 you must obtain artefact No.7, as described in our last communication.

 It is essential for the next ritual. It must be genuine, time is short. You

 know the consequences of failure. Make hast or else. Signed, ‘The

 Hermetic Council’.

 

Paul thought for a moment, he was about to return the letter, then

 heard approaching heavy footsteps, Eric had rushed off to meet their

 source. Paul hastily pocketed the letter.

 "Don't touch anything” Paul looked up from the highly polished Dr

 Martens shoes with trouser bottoms trying to win a losing battle to

 connect with them.

 “I’m DTI McIlroy, and my men won’t be very happy with you

 moving around the evidence, will they?” Paul almost stood to attention

 in front of a tall man in his early fifties with clear grey eyes, a large

 nose and a fine moustache on his upper lip.

 

 “Is there a room where I can interview you two cavaliers?” Eric who

 had almost been hiding behind the policeman, nodded his head up and

 down with a nervous twitch.

 

 Eric pulled the door closed of the small office full of papers. A small

 stone Ancient Egyptian cat looked accusitively down upon them from a

 shelf. The DTI plonked himself down on a wooden chair which

 creaked in protest.

 

“Right now, notwithstanding one of you clowns playing about with the

 evidence.I want to know how you found the good doctor of science?”

 Eric kept stuttering so Paul relayed the gruesome details. Shaking in

 the process.

 “Don’t worry young man, your reaction is normal. Now, how well did

 you know this man?” Paul said he had spent time with him chatting

 about various archaeological matters, he had continued his interest in

 archaeology after leaving university.

 Eric continued to stutter. They were interviewed for quite a while and

 both had to sign statements.

 “I might have to talk to you again, so don’t go missing for the next

 few days. I'll just take your details for now. Don't worry everything is

 in control." Which it wasn't.

 

The tall inspector got to his feet and left, reeking of cheap aftershave

 and cigarettes.

 Eric looked at Paul.

 “Now let’s have that cuppa, I think we need it.”

 Suddenly there was a loud and continuous rap on the front door. Paul

 awakened from his semi-slumber. Is there enough room to hide under

 the bed?

 The rapping on the door seemed to get louder.