Beyond Eden Read online

  The amazing thing was that the positions of peon or prince weren’t assigned you at birth. First, you’re offered peon, and if you accept it, it’s yours. But if you refuse it, you’re offered another choice. Problem was, most poor bastards meekly accepted what they thought was their fate. Go to school at age 5. Start work at 21. Die at 80, never having lived.

  But if you refuse to be a peon, you refuse to accept the blinders, you are offered the chance to become a prince, and the world becomes your gift.

  A case in point—and, to Nestor, the only case in point—his own father had been born a simple fisherman to a long line of fishermen on the small island of Santorini. But Chiron had refused the offered designation of peon.

  He had taught his son how to discover what people needed and provide it. Chiron himself had turned one small boat into a fleet of boats. Nestor, following his example, had turned the fleet of boats into a shipyard and from the shipyard launched a fleet of businesses.

  Chiron had taught his son how to grab life and enjoy every bit of what it had to offer, to wring every bit of pleasure from the day.

  Chiron had also died when Nestor was 15.

  That was the one way Chiron had failed Nestor, had failed himself. He’d left his son to care for his mother and young sister at the time he should have been enjoying his youth.

  Nestor leaned back in his ergonomic leather chair in his London office and reached for his drink. Outside, the city went on, full tilt. The drones had no idea that humankind’s greatest aspiration was becoming reality. For the princes, of course, the only ones who could afford it. The peons were, as they always had been, expendable.

  Damn! The ice had melted again. The billionaire called again for Fernando, who appeared with a fresh drink, removing the full one he’d set down only 15 minutes before.

  “Call for the car,” Nestor said. “We fly out in the morning.”

  Saturday

  February 25, 2006, 7:30 a.m.

  Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Germany

  * * *

  This just doesn’t add up, thought Lieutenant Colonel Kathryn Heitoff, Chief of Services at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. She was looking over the results of the full physical and neurological work-up performed on Jaime Richards the day before and found no evidence of prior head trauma that might have caused the amnesia. Even more puzzling, all of her tests, blood, EEG, CT scan, seemed to indicate a patient approximately 25 years of age and in perfect health. The only problem was this patient was in her late thirties and the medical file the Army had on her was filled with the normal by-products of that many years of living. But now, for example, there was no evidence of the scar tissue from Richards’s previous shoulder injury. It seemed to have just vanished. Dr. Heitoff began to wonder if she had been given the wrong test results.

  She pulled the EEG readings out of the folder. Wow, she thought as she examined the wave patterns for test subject Richards, J. The combination of alpha and theta waves was highly unusual. Either she’d fallen asleep during testing, or… the doctor flipped back through the papers on her desk to find Jaime’s personal data. She could have been meditating. And the intensity of the gamma waves—this woman must be a phenomenal multi-tasker.

  The officer was so engrossed in the test readings, she jumped when someone knocked on her doorjamb.

  “Dr. Heitoff,” said a woman in an Army gray physical training shirt and black pants. “I’m Jaime Richards. The nurse told me to come on back.”

  “Yes, please, close the door and have a seat.” The doctor motioned to a chair across from her. Without staring, Dr. Heitoff observed her patient. She was fit, tanned, and all of her movements were smooth. She seemed to have good motor control and balance. She took the offered chair.

  “Chaplain Richards, I’ll be frank,” said the doctor, now looking her patient directly in the eye. “Considering the long-term trauma you have experienced, I asked for the opportunity to perform a full battery of psychological tests on you. I wanted to ensure there are no lasting effects from your ordeal. For some reason to which I am not privy, I have been overruled by those in authority over me. However, before anyone signs your leave papers, I have insisted on this interview.”

  “Sounds fair,” responded Jaime.

  The doctor expected her patient to seem uncomfortable, ill at ease with the prospect of answering the questions posed by a psychiatrist. Instead, Jaime was calm, sitting comfortably in her chair and waiting patiently to see what this interview would entail.

  “What is your name?”

  “Jaime Lynn Richards.”

  And so it began. The questions came rapid-fire: “Birth date?”

  “August 16, 1966.”

  “Marital status?”

  “I’m widowed.”

  “Children?”

  “None.”

  “It says here that you lost both your parents when you were young.”

  Chaplain Richards gave a deep sigh. “I was a sophomore in high school. They were killed on an outing from a Pakistani refugee camp where my father was serving as a doctor and my mother was a nurse. It was a very difficult time. I’ve come to terms.”

  “And your husband, Paul Atwood, was killed by a suicide bomber.”

  “Yeah, I guess that does spice up the file. He was. He was leading a group to Israel and Palestine when he was killed on Jerusalem’s Pedestrian Mall. None of the rest of the group was with him. I guess—he was shopping. So, as I said, I’m widowed.”

  Dr. Heitoff watched the chaplain’s face as she talked. She didn’t shy away from either subject and was able to deal with her losses directly. Granted, they had occurred some years ago. It seemed she’d taken the time to process the events.

  The doctor moved on to a different line of questions.

  “Where are we, and what time and day is it?”

  Then came word and number list repetition and simple arithmetic questions. All of these were answered without hesitation by the patient. In fact, the doctor sensed that the woman seemed to be secretly enjoying the experience.

  “Who is the President of the United States?”

  “Well, I have been kind of out of touch, but I just read in the Stars and Stripes last night that it’s still George W. Bush.”

  The interview continued with word associations and short-term memory tests. Alcohol and drug use, sleep, appetite, sex life.

  “I’ve been with goat herders,” she said wryly. “They treated me like an honored sister.”

  “So no sex life?”

  “None that I recall,” she answered, trying not to smile.

  Then, “Have you had any extremely terrifying events recently?”

  “I’m not sure if this counts, but I really thought I was a goner when those five Army gun trucks surrounded me two days ago. All I could think was, ‘One wrong move by me and one of these guys might pull the trigger.’ But it’s not like that is going to give me nightmares or anything.”

  “What about your kidnapping from Babylon? That must have been horrifying!”

  “Truthfully, I don’t remember much. The guy drugged me. I will say the image of his sneering face just before I passed out is imprinted pretty strongly up here.” She pointed to her temple.

  “Does that image intrude unbidden at times?”

  “Not really… I just know if I ever had to work with a sketch artist, I could give great detail.”

  “Tell me about the gaps in your memory. I understand you do not have total recall of the events over the last three years.”

  “Not yet, but each day, as some small thing jogs my memory, it is like a door has opened to a little corner of my mind.”

  The doctor smiled. “How aptly you put that! My hunch is you will continue to slowly regain your memory over time, as more and more of your ‘doors’ are opened. But I can’t promise it will all return.”

  Dr. Heitoff decided to take a different tack. “Do you have any feelings that the world or you aren’t real? Any strange experiences you don�
�t tell people?” The psychiatrist had fared well in her profession because of an excellent ability to read the faces, body language, and other nonverbal signals of her patients. She noticed immediately that while this patient’s face did not change expression, something passed across her eyes. The doctor had seen that before, when someone was holding something back. Perhaps there was more trauma, deep down, than Jaime was currently able to acknowledge.

  “Nope, no strange experiences,” said the chaplain confidently. “I will admit things seem a little unreal when I see all the changes that have taken place in the Army in just three years. Especially those new digital uniforms! But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re right, Chaplain Richards, absolutely right.”

  Dr. Heitoff drummed her pencil on the ink blotter as she looked back over her notes. This woman was an enigma. She was in perfect physical health but still had some extensive memory gaps. She had excellent short-term memory and normal neural activity but was hiding something. Then again, everyone had some secret part of themselves they hid from others. To be a total open book would be more the concern.

  Suddenly the doctor stood, having reached her decision. “Chaplain, I can see no reason to keep you here.” She walked around the desk and extended her hand to Jaime. “I am going to concur with your request for leave, with the following caution. If you begin to have any sudden mood swings, changes in appetite or sleep patterns, nightmares, or flashbacks, then see a physician immediately. Do you have any questions of me?”

  Returning the handshake with a strong grip, the chaplain smiled and said, “None I can think of. Thank you for your time and support.”

  Then she disappeared out the door and down the hall.

  February 25, 2006, 7:40 a.m.

  Davies Penthouse, Claridge’s Hotel

  London, England

  * * *

  Playing God.

  That was what her husband was doing.

  Geri Allende stood on the terrace of their suite at Claridge’s and surveyed the slowly lightening rooftops of London. She had her coat pulled tightly around her but didn’t notice the pervasive chill or the wind that blew her straight, shoulder-length black hair behind her.

  Her husband, billionaire businessman Nestor Allende, was involved in funding scientific research that his wife found morally troubling. He kept trying to convince her of the importance of the work, but it just never sat right with her.

  There were some things humankind could futz with and some things that were beyond their purview. If you were conceived, you were supposed to be born. Then you were supposed to die when God called you home. Not until then. And certainly not after. That’s what Pastor Raeburn always said. Geri had tried to convince her husband of that for decades.

  Until now she’d been unsuccessful.

  But now a new possibility had presented itself. One that made such perfect sense.

  Geri felt almost like Esther in the Bible. Perhaps she had been led into her marriage with Nestor. Perhaps he had, unwittingly, been made interested in his field of endeavor. Perhaps they’d been given the finances they had for a reason. Perhaps God had put her here for such a time as this.

  She looked again down at the city lights. Nestor was still out at meetings, but in a few hours they’d fly out, this time to a destination of her choosing. To Greece.

  She opened the door behind her and stepped back into the spacious parlor. The butler had lit the fire and had brought in Geri’s prescribed breakfast of organic yogurt, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a bran muffin. Geri tossed her coat across a wing chair, grabbed the orange juice, and sat on the long, backless settee in front of the fire. She looked at the open Bible there before it. She had marked two passages.

  The first was from the Book of Genesis: And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed. Out of the ground, the Lord God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food, the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil (2:8–9).

  The second was from Revelation: Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city. On either side of the river is the tree of life, with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month, and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations (22:1–2).

  Geri shivered, though the fire shot heat through her. Perhaps she’d been put here for such a time as this.

  For such a time as this.

  February 25, 2006, 2:20 p.m.

  Via del Parthenon

  Athens, Greece

  * * *

  Jaime ignored the cacophony of car horns and slid through a knot of traffic on the crowded Athenian street on her rented white Vespa. The motorbike fit her mood exactly. It underscored the idea that she was free, on a four-day pass, directing her own future, the wind in her hair. Well, OK, the wind whooshing past her helmet. That was enough for her.

  She loved the sights and sounds—and even the smells—of this ancient city. She loved the expressive local drivers and the frequent squeal of brakes around her. She loved that it was 60 degrees Fahrenheit even in the winter. She loved that she was on leave, had come here of her own volition. Once she reached the city itself, she had taken the long way, along Dionysiou Areopagitou, just because she was in the mood to go past the Acropolis.

  She was here for a purpose, of course. She was to meet her Terris-based Operative partner here, as Athens was the last known address of Jorgen Edders. But that was in an hour’s time. Right now, in this moment, she was free to drive down any street she wished, free to stop at a local stand and buy souvlaki, free to play anything she wanted on her iPod. Just free. For these moments. She’d take it. She’d savor it.

  In fact, she did decide to make a brief stop to purchase food. Jaime wasn’t quite sure what she was in the mood for, but she steered steadily to the left of the main boulevard on which she’d been traveling and onto a side street lined with small shops and hole-in-the-wall local food shops. The best kind.

  She chose one solely by the colorful painting on its sign and was about to stop when she glanced into her rearview mirror.

  Two blocks back, a person on a black motorcycle was idling on a corner. His jacket, pants, and helmet were all black—not unusual of itself. In fact, she wasn’t sure what it was about the bike that alarmed her. But something did.

  Instead of stopping, Jaime rolled her Vespa off the stone sidewalk and back onto the street, reluctantly dismissing the spicy smell of rosemary, lemon, and pepper. Within two blocks, she was out of sight of the black bike. She breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at her own skittish behavior.

  Vassilissis Sofias, a major thoroughfare, crossed at the next intersection, and she made the left, wanting to travel on before looking for another likely lunch stop. She’d gone perhaps five kilometers when she passed the black bike waiting at a cross street.

  Her whole body shivered.

  No, no, no.

  She had no time for this.

  She continued straight ahead and put on some speed, heading into the thick of city traffic. Her only thought was to lose him and come out the other side.

  And it seemed she did. She stayed on main streets, bobbing and weaving through the most crowded parts of town, until she hadn’t seen him at all for 10 minutes or so. Even then, she continued to be cautious.

  She took a series of shortcuts on smaller streets, streets from which she could have easily seen anyone who was trying to keep up with her. Nothing.

  Maybe it had been her imagination. Maybe the fellow was out to meet his buddies at a bar and had happened to be briefly going her way.

  At least the incident had served to focus her and rev her instincts.

  Her sightseeing was over for the day; that much was clear.

  Jaime could now feel the salt in the air, as her twists and turns had brou
ght her into proximity of the port. She continued on, her route now along side streets, until she came to one—sort of a cross between a small street and an alley—that was currently deserted. She parked the bike and took off her helmet, shaking out her blond hair, fairly certain she had helmet hair. Being in the Army, she was used to that, at least. She glanced into one of the Vespa’s side mirrors to assess the damage and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  The man in the black helmet loomed behind her. She spun around with a well-placed hook kick, but he caught her foot and pulled her leg up so quickly that she lost her balance and landed with a thud on the pavement on her stomach. He was instantly on top of her, seated astride the small of her back, and he pulled her wrists back and quickly looped them with a rough length of rope that had been tied into makeshift handcuffs.

  No, no, no, no.

  He pulled her up roughly, muttering in Greek what would happen if she struggled. He pulled a blindfold over her head—from the feel of the soft fabric, it was a sleep mask. It wasn’t tight, but there was no way she could remove it.

  “Don’t make a sound, or you are dead.”

  That much Greek she understood.

  February 25, 2006, 2:36 p.m.

  Somewhere dark

  * * *

  Daniel Derry was awakened from sleep once again by the sound of a key in the lock to his small room. He had no idea if it was day or night. There were no windows in his room, but there were two in the hallways.

  Outside those windows, it was almost always dark.

  Maybe he had been kidnapped by vampires, who only worked at night. He knew that wasn’t true; it was far-fetched. But so was the fact that he had been kidnapped. He’d asked the doctor lady several times, “Why? Why me?”

  She never answered.

  He wore a long-sleeved Death by Rock’n’Roll T-shirt and cargo pants, the outfit he’d had on at the mall. His kidnappers had given him a neat pile of T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweatpants, socks, and briefs, all nondescript. But he feared that if he changed, they’d take his real clothes while he slept, and he couldn’t stand that. His real clothes were his one tangible link to his old life. They were proof of his identity. He couldn’t lose them.