Mission (50 page)

Kovacs gave a deprecating smile. ‘Doesn't sound too difficult. I'll give it a try.' He picked up the chair. ‘As you've probably gathered from Linda, we Catholics tend to be easily impressed.'

‘You're also easily upset,' I replied. ‘I'd better warn you, it's not all good news. Rome comes in for a lot of stick.'

Kovacs laughed. ‘Can you think of a time when it didn't?'

I flagged him down as he turned away. ‘Hold on a minute. Does the name ‘Brax ring a bell?'

Kovac's eyes fluttered as his brain made the right connections. ‘That's an interesting one. The only name I can think of that fits is “Abraxas”. The Gnostics regarded him as the Supreme Unknown. He's usually classified as a demon but his name is also connected with the cycles of Creation. He was believed by some authorities to be the ruler of 365 heavens and by others as the mediator between living creatures and the God-Head. There is also a story about an Aeon – which again, by tradition, is usually identified as Abraxas – who mirrored himself on chaos and became Lord of the World.'

As you can see, this guy Kovacs was a walking encyclopedia. His mention of the word ‘Aeon' brought to mind what The Man had said about the origin of the Ain-folk. ‘And an Aeon is what?' I asked.

‘The highest order of Celestial power,' replied Kovacs. ‘It's a term used to describe the first created beings. Spiritual entities formed from the divine presence. God's own being. Abraxas was their leader. The word ‘Aeon' is also synonymous with the
sefira
– the divine emanations through which God manifested his existence in the creation of the Universe.'

More pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. And they seemed to fit into the picture I'd begun to build of'Brax. ‘I must get a copy of this book,' I said.

‘The best thing is to let Leakey's know you're after one,' suggested Kovacs. ‘And try the other second-hand bookshops. It was published in 1967 by The Free Press, New York. The author's name was Gustav Davidson. Price was fifteen dollars. At least, it was then.
Could be twice that now.'

I waited in case he was going to quote me the Library of Congress Catalogue number but he didn't. I handed him his cup and saucer, took out a new glass for The Man and picked up the bottle of wine. ‘What do you do for a living, Pete?'

Kovacs moved aside to let me pass. ‘I'm an analyst.'

‘Investment, political, food, systems, or psycho – ?' I asked.

‘Agricultural,' he replied. ‘I'm mainly involved with studies of Eastern Europe, Russia and Asia. Keeping tabs on changes in crop mixes, ground utilisation and farming technology. Producing forecasts of grain and root crop yields. Mostly from journals, official reports and statistics published by the countries concerned, plus whatever information comes to hand.'

It sounded like the kind of job where you could die of boredom before picking up your first pay cheque. ‘Fascinating,' I said.

Kovacs shrugged as we walked through to the front of the house. ‘It pays the rent. It also helps us fix the right price for our grain shipments if we know how desperate they are. All part of the international poker game.'

I nodded agreement. ‘I see from the car that you live in Virginia. Do you work for the Department of Agriculture in Washington?'

‘Well, sort of,' he replied, with an interesting lack of precision. ‘I'm on a kind of retainer. But I guess that still makes me a faceless Federal bureaucrat.'

‘Don't knock it,' I said. ‘Kissinger started on a part-time basis too.'

Kovacs caught The Man's eye as we joined the others on the porch. ‘Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a chair?'

The Man shook his head. ‘No thanks.'

I poured out some wine and got Linda to pass it to him. Miriam filled Kovac's cup with coffee and handed me the pot. ‘Leo, be a sweetie, go and make some more, will you?'

Leo, be a sweetie …

Gale McDonald found me watching the percolator doing its stuff while I nursed my paranoia.

‘What do you think?' I said. ‘Was it worth the trip?'

‘He's certainly a remarkable guy,' she admitted. ‘And he's been telling us some pretty amazing things but – ' She pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows clear of her blue shades, ‘ – what proof have we got that it's true?'

‘How about your editor? Do you think he'd buy it?' I asked.

McDonald shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I've a feeling that if I wheeled Yale into the office and got him to repeat what he's just been telling us, we'd both get thrown out on our ear.' She sighed frustratedly. ‘If only we could come up with some tangible evidence. Maybe some kind of medical report from Jeff Fowler about his blood. A complete rundown on his physiology or whatever. Something that would really prove that Yale was not just an ordinary guy who was making all this stuff up.'

‘Yes, I see what you mean,' I said. ‘And a few miracles would come in handy too.'

‘Don't be such a pisser, Resnick,' she sniffed. ‘I came up here to help.'

‘Has it occurred to you that he might not want your help – or even mine?' I said. ‘That it might be the other way around and that you and I need his?'

She reseated her glasses on the bridge of her nose. ‘Don't you want to see him on TV?'

‘No,' I replied.

She looked baffled. ‘Why not? If you handle this the right way you could reach a global audience of a hundred, two hundred million people. You could get the whole world to switch on.'

I shook my head. ‘Gale, come on. You know in your heart of hearts it would never work. It would be cheap, trivial and totally superficial. Besides which, I can't bear the idea of him being interviewed by David Frost. Can you imagine it? It would be absolutely horrific.'

‘Now who's being trivial?' said McD. ‘Look, let's be serious for a minute. If we could sell this to my editor, he could probably persuade Channel Eight to get a team of Biblical scholars together in a lodge up in the Adirondacks, or Lake Placid, and pay their expenses while they check out his story.'

‘Gale,' I sighed. ‘I don't think you understand. If you put The Man together with the top five or the top fifty theologians, what would it prove? Every scrap of knowledge they possess comes from the study and reinterpretation of the surviving written evidence. Which has already been messed around through oral transmission, before being selectively edited and amended by the first writers to put pen to papyrus and then getting its tenses twisted by translators. Not to mention the chunks missed out by copyists or burnt underneath Arab cooking pots. When you come right down to it, there is very little hard, incontrovertible evidence.'

‘But what about his healing of Mrs Perez's hands, and the statue that she and her husband and Father Rosado saw bleeding. And Jeffs medical evidence. That's proof too.'

I brushed her word aside. ‘That could be explained away. And in any case, it's not directly attributable. Supposing he refuses to give the panel a sign, the way he turned down that request from the Pharisees? Can't you see what would happen? You'd get into a ludicrous situation where the experts insisted that the texts were authentic and that The Man was an impostor.'

‘Sure, I can see that,' replied McD. ‘But there's an equal chance that it could be the other way around. After all, there's no reason why they shouldn't react the way you have. Obviously, we'd put people with open minds on the panel. Maybe a humanist, some agnostics, atheists or whatever. You know, so that we get a broad spectrum of belief.'

I threw up my hands. ‘Gale, it's pointless. It's a self-defeating exercise. If you're trying to get The Man the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, your experts also have to be acceptable to the churches whose viewpoints they represent. Which means that your panel will be packed with hard-liners. But even they may fail to reach a consensus.'

She frowned. ‘Why?' It was obvious that learning to ride a bucking bronco had not left her a great deal of time to absorb the ups and downs of the ecumenical movement.

‘Because,' I began patiently, ‘the differences which separate rightwing and Marxist-type Christians are almost as great as the differences between Christian and Jew. And between Jew and Moslem, and Moslem and Hindu. It may not be exactly headline news but the Vatican has been cracking down on its maverick theologians over the past few years. How are they going to take the news that the power that launched Christianity was the same power that inspired Muhammad and set Islam on the road to Morocco? And which in turn, through its incursions into Spain and southern France, carried enlightenment back to Christendom. Fuelling the Renaissance, the Reformation and, through the teaching of the Sufis, a new search for The Truth?'

McD's eyes narrowed in an effort to bring this giant canvas into fine focus. Bright though she was, I had a feeling that her knowledge of European history stopped at the North Dakota line. ‘Did he tell you that?'

‘That, and much much more,' I said. ‘The big headline to come out of all this is that you Christians don't have a monopoly on the truth about God. You've been running with the ball but in the wrong direction. The Man staked a claim to the whole world but the one you've created is not quite what he had in mind.'

‘Don't look at me,' she said.

‘Or me either,' I replied. ‘Apart from my sister's wedding, it's nearly twenty years since I saw the inside of a synagogue. But what The Man is selling is light-years away from the present set-up. It means a radical re-think of God, heaven, earth and the whole salvation package. We have to go back to the beginning and revise our views on everything from Arianism to Zen. The Man is part of an ongoing Universalist movement. The elements are here, right under our noses. We just have to work out how to put them back together again.'

‘So tell me about it,' said McD.

I pointed past her at the kitchen door. ‘Go out there and talk to The Man. If he runs out of time and you have a spare week, you can come up here and listen to the tapes we've made. If there's anything you don't understand, I'll try and explain it. But let me make one thing clear right now. If you really want to know what this is all about,
you
are the one who is going to have to come up with the answers.'

‘Okay,' she said. ‘But meanwhile, what are we going to do about him?'

I took a deep breath. ‘Gale, I'm not going to do anything. This visit of his is strictly off the record. Whatever you decide to do is your business. But I can tell you right now that even if you manage to sell this to your editor, his appearances are too erratic to even contemplate setting up a panel of experts. I've been wrestling with this problem for weeks, trying to decide whether I should keep it to myself, or attempt to share the news with other people. In the end, he solved the dilemma for me. He wanted you, Jeff and Linda to know.'

‘Did he tell you why?' asked McD.

‘No,' I replied. ‘But if I were you, I'd think twice before asking. Nothing that has happened is an accident. Carol, and Peter Kovacs are here for a reason too. Whatever it is, it's now their problem, not mine.'

‘So what you're saying is, “do nothing”.' It was clearly a solution she disliked.

‘No. What I'm saying is that you should give up any idea that your meeting with The Man is going to bring you fame and fortune. Each of us has to draw what we can from this encounter. Which may be nothing, something that is of passing interest, or an experience that will affect the rest of our lives.'

McD accepted the point with a sober nod. ‘Okay … you've convinced me. So I'm not going to be the next Barbara Walters.'

‘You'll survive,' I said. ‘You may even live to thank me.'

Jeff Fowler appeared at the door to the kitchen. ‘Miriam sent me to check on how the coffee's doing.'

I showed him the fresh-perked pot. ‘It's right here.'

Fowler eyed the pair of us. ‘You both look very glum for such an auspicious occasion.'

‘Gale wants to have The Man certified,' I said.

The news raised Jeff's eyebrows.

‘As Jesus,' explained McD. ‘Not as a lunatic.'

‘I can see the problem,' nodded Fowler. ‘Still, it might be possible to prove medically that he was – how shall I put it – not one of us?'

‘I already suggested that,' said McD.

‘And?' enquired Fowler.

‘It doesn't solve Gale's problem,' I replied. ‘All it's going to do is make him the Man from Mars.'

‘We've got to start somewhere,' shrugged Fowler.

‘I agree. But not on The Man,' I said. ‘We have to start on ourselves.'

‘I need a cigarette,' said McD wearily.

‘There's a pack of Marlboro's right by your elbow,' I said.

‘Thanks but mine are out on the porch.' McD held out her hand. ‘Give me the coffee.'

I poured myself a cup first. ‘Jeff?'

‘No, thanks. I've had plenty.'

I passed the coffee and the jug of milk to McD. ‘Stick around. Jeff and I don't have any secrets.'

She eyed me. ‘I think I may learn more outside.'

I gulped down some coffee and cranked up some more of the Resnick charm to lay on Fowler. ‘Uh, Jeff, I know I should have levelled with you when we first got into this but …'

‘That's okay,' said Fowler. ‘In the circumstances I'd have probably done the same thing.'

I treated him to an affable smile that came straight off the shelf. ‘So,
tell me, what was so special about that blood sample?'

Fowler licked his lips. ‘I know you played dumb when we first met but how much do you actually know about the subject?'

‘Jeff,' I said, ‘I know it's red, that we've got about nine pints of the stuff and that, if you're lucky, it clots when you cut yourself or, if you're not, you bleed to death. And that's it.
Finito. Terminada.
If you want to know the truth, the reason I know so little about it is because, when I was small, I used to faint at the sight of it. I was eighteen before I saw my first Dracula movie and discovered that girls liked being bitten on the neck.'