The Memphite Equation: 3000 Year of Opaque Continuous Influence

By Nathaniel Cameron

The locations and physical descriptions are factual – the prophetic embellished future is yet to be foretold.

During July 15–17, 2007, an epochal event occurred in Manchester, England – the first international biblical conference on the 3000-year-old copper scroll, which later brewed a dangerous controversy. The copper scroll is among a group of scrolls found in 1947 and 1952, but this is the only one carved in metal and is not strictly a religious scroll.

Dr. David E. Burton, a recent Harvard graduate, attended the conference. After Q&A, when what he saw didn’t come up, feeling baffled, he shared his idea that there was an equation on the scroll. From that moment, his life, family, an old and enigmatic organization (existing since 1863) he later joins, and the world change forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781645755449

Nathaniel Cameron

Nathaniel Cameron is a former paratrooper, boxer, inventor, entrepreneur, chemist, and practiced medicine for over 30 years. This is his first novel, it’s an international political thriller that begins with pursuit of a 3000-year-old treasure, and ends in transfiguration.

Book preview

About the Author

Nathaniel Cameron is a former paratrooper, boxer, inventor, entrepreneur, chemist, and practiced medicine for over 30 years. This is his first novel, it’s an international political thriller that begins with pursuit of a 3000-year-old treasure, and ends in transfiguration.

Dedication

To my sons, Deatrick, Nathaniel and Vincent Cameron, and legacy.

Curiosity is the light.

Copyright Information ©

Nathaniel Cameron 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Cameron, Nathaniel

The Memphite Equation

ISBN 9781645755425 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645755432 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645755449 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911608

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

To a golden, loving energy who first recognized my humanity, Mr. Oliver Jones, a wonderful, brilliant teacher. To my father, Frank Cameron. Presented with incredible obstacles in life, he prevailed with grace and dignity, and gave me everything I needed to travel this path I am on. To Karly Rauch, a dear friend, her graceful poetic phrases ignited this flame. To Laura Doward, whose love of words and ease of transcribing has been more than helpful. To a brilliant, fast-burning, highly creative, energetic person, Karen Kaplan, who began transcribing, but sadly was not here for the completion. To Joan Ashley, who believed in the melody before the song was completed, and, finally to my wife, Doris, once loved always loved.

Chapter 1

"Oh God."

Dr. Burton, the voice cold-accented and direct. More of a 13th-century medieval inquisition than an interrogation.

Joseph yelled, Where is it?! disregarding Dr. Burton’s closed, bleeding, right eye. They extracted information, then disposed. Done usually by surprise, inflicting maximum pain to gain absolute control was the key.

The victim, Doctor David Emmitt Burton, must respond quietly, clearly, then be discarded; that is a clean way of saying it. He knew something dangerous, something he would die for; he didn’t know its significance but could learn.

Smiling, staring into the bleeding face of Dr. Burton, the interrogator knew the end game.

Oh God. Dr. Burton’s confused, stunned body lay partially on the shattered coffee table, barely conscious, bleeding from the nose and right eye, convinced he was about to die. In a flash, memory, spotty, came in on Continental 2953, flight from Jerusalem into Newark Liberty International Airport. Then a shuttle flight down to D.C. Thought he would surprise Mother for lunch; she was out.

Dr. Burton? the voice said outside the front door.

Yes, Dr. Burton answered through the front door.

I’m Joseph, live three blocks over. I have your carryon suitcase by mistake from flight 2953 this morning. You are Doctor David Emmitt Burton?

Dr. Burton was concerned; he had some important notes in the briefcase. Yes, great, come in.

How did he know I was at Mother’s? he thought as he reached for the door, swinging it open. Dr. David E. Burton had a feeling something was amiss, like closing your car, realizing your keys are inside as the door lock clicks. Only this felt more ominous.

There stood two men. David knew something was wrong, desperately wrong. He felt it in the pit of his stomach when they brushed past him. Be careful; the small rug is slippery. They had walked up the three steps onto the golden Oriental rug overlaying the glossy Patagonian Cherry hardwood floor, under the brightly lit Schonbek Bagatelle Heritage seven-light crystal chandelier as he tried desperately to display calmness.

At six foot four inches, there were few people David looked up to. The second man was a mammoth, at least six-foot ten. Mammoth had a bulldog’s flat face, huge hands, massive body, and small black eyes; he showed no emotion. Both were dressed in black, shirts, pant, jackets, and shoes, with black hair. Joseph was smaller, six-foot three, colder. For a moment they stood, stared, Mammoth to David’s right.

Joseph’s serpentine voice hissed, Dr. Burton, where is it?

Startled, he replied, What, where is what? staring into Joseph’s cold blue eyes. He didn’t see Mammoth’s punch coming which smashed into the right side of his face and knocked him into the living room. He crashed onto the Duncan Phyfe mahogany coffee table, like an overweight child on a wooden seesaw, shattering it; his right eye began swelling instantly. Usually two books are on the table, a pictorial travel journal and the latest African-American novel of interest. Only one book this time, at the end of the table where his mother usually resided, near the gold crushed lamp, where the warm early morning light caressed the room. It was THE LONG WALK TO FREEDOM An Autobiography of Nelson Mandela. Mandela launched in the air, landed flat on the hardwood floor, sounding like a weapon going off, not sure if he had been shot. David lay stunned, barely conscious.

Mammoth dragged him back into the foyer and pulled him up. Partial control, Joseph thought. Dropping the doctor and the calmness, Joseph shouted, glaring at David, Where is it?!

Where is what? in a pleading voice, David repeating the phrase.

Almost in one movement, the blow and pain came from behind. Mammoth’s left hammer of a hand slammed down on David’s left shoulder, dislocating it. Almost simultaneously, he reached in front with his right palm on David’s chest, pulling him back as he slammed his left palm into David’s left scapula, further dislocating the shoulder anterior.

David screamed in agony and slowly sank heavily to his knees on the hardwood floor. He groaned, head bowed, his left elbow was held in his right hand, close to his side. Joseph and Mammoth stood over him. This was the moment, absolute control.

Joseph spoke calmly now, Did you attend a conference in Manchester, England, this July 15? David nodded his head yes.

Joseph said, I didn’t hear you! in that serpentine voice again.

David replied, Yes.

They were professionals, bringing many skills to that moment. They were relaxed, definitely confident now.

Joseph asked, Did you speak with Professor Schaeffer, the key note speaker?

David said, Yes, barely above a whisper.

Joseph asked, Did you show him an equation?

David, now coughing up blood, bleeding profusely from the nose, replied, Yes.

Did you request a meeting? Joseph asked.

Coughing again, No, David answered, barely above a whisper.

Joseph, in a surprised, irritated voice, asked, No?!

David replied, He requested the meeting.

Joseph nodded in recognition. Oh I see. What did he say?

David, still holding his left elbow with his right hand against his left side, said, Gave me a business card to call that evening.

Did you? Finally Joseph seemed excited.

David replied, No.

Why not? Joseph asked, irritated.

G-mama died, took a flight out that evening. David grimaced, looking at Joseph’s black, shiny shoes.

G-mam, what? Joseph’s face took on a question.

My grandmother, David whispered.

Joseph nodded in recognition. Have you called since your arrival? He stared intensely at David’s swollen face pensively.

My small traveling bag with his business card was lost, David’s voice was slightly stronger.

Joseph smiled and looked at Mammoth.

David knelt bent over, right hand still clutching his left elbow against his side, his blood pooling on his mother’s hardwood floor. Joseph’s black, shiny shoes were on the small slippery rug.

You didn’t answer the question. You know the name of the university; have you made contact since your arrival home? Joseph spoke menacingly.

David raised his head and looked in Joseph’s cold, blue eyes. Death was coming. He thought, "Be not afraid." David’s voice was indignantly firm,Got in only one hour ago.

Joseph stared into a swollen face. So… he spoke pleasantly now. Dr. Burton, where is it?

David pointed to the kitchen and grimaced. On the kitchen table, in my briefcase. Finally understood, David finished Joseph’s thought. Didn’t have time to go by my apartment.

Without looking away from David’s swollen, bleeding face, Joseph motioned for Mammoth to pick him up.

The sound of metal on metal, always startling, came from the slide of a key in the front door and froze them all for a moment.

Oh god, Mother, David yelled. No, no, run!

In one motion, Joseph pulled his weapon and whirled back toward the front door. The contravening force on the slippery rug swept his feet in the air toward David. He hurled down the three steps head first and crashed into the door, stunned, the weapon discharged into the brightly lit chandelier. As he fell back, his head hit the first step, rendering him unconscious. The weapon slid across the floor into David’s bent left knee.

Mammoth fired off three rapid rounds into the door.

He didn’t know where it came from, perhaps fear for his mother. David had a boost of adrenaline, rage replacing pain, and he reached for the weapon. Mammoth stepped over Joseph and reached for the door, always a bit slower than Joseph, and suddenly felt danger. He turned back toward David and felt the impact of three, hot missiles slammed into his chest. The impact knocked him back against the door. Slowly raising his weapon, David fired again.

Mammoth’s eyes rolled back in his head like a death scene in a movie. In slow motion, the weapon lowered aimlessly, falling from his hand. The last bullet severed the arch of the aorta, instantaneously plummeting blood pressure, rendering him helpless. Mammoth slumped face forward away from the door, over Joseph’s legs, dying.

Dr. David Emmitt Burton knelt bent over and clutched his left elbow, groaning. Pain replaced adrenaline rage. He rocked gently and called to a higher authority, OH God!

Chapter 2

Chief Burton recoiled from the sound; he never heard his son sound so desperate. Oh god, Mother! No, no run! He fell away from the front door as three bullets ripped through it. He reacted instinctively, pulling his weapon. Seconds later, he called for backup and an ambulance. Moments later, he heard three shots, then another discharge inside the house, followed by a heavy weight on the front door and a sliding sound against the thick wooden door. He lay sprawled on the grass, with his keys still in the front door.

Chief Burton darted past the front living-room window, 16th Avenue’s side. He glanced through the window, through the sheer, creamy, soft, white curtains, with a hint of soft, tantalizing tint of blue, past the shattered coffee table. He saw David on his knees under the chandelier, rocking head bowed, adrenaline boost dissipated, right hand holding his left arm at the elbow, left palm over his right chest. Chief Burton dashed to the back of the house. He heard sirens blaring in the distance and the sound of Jeff driving up in his silver Mercedes S400 hybrid sedan. He ran over and stopped Jeff before he could turn onto the driveway or raise the garage door.

Dad, what’s going…?

The chief shouted, Jed, get your mother out of here!

Jed…? It’s what she called him. What’s going on?

Sarah, stay in the car. Jed, get this car out of here.

She grabbed her son’s right hand, preventing him from backing up, and called out to Jed, No. What’s going on? Chief Burton exacerbated through his hands in the air, for a moment stared at Sarah, and knew that decision was final. Quickly, he shifted his focus.

There had been only one other time Chief Burton was this tense; that too involve his family – the time of the truck accident. The driver ran a stop light and hit the right side of the car. Chief Burton scrambled out; Sarah’s passenger door was crushed. The oldest son, Jed, was 12, stunned. David, eight, was crying. He was bleeding and barely got out the car, stumbled around, surveyed the scene, saw his sons out but did not see Sarah. She was barely conscious and trapped in the car. Chief Burton could smell the gas from the fuel tank, it’d ruptured. He somehow mustered enough strength to get Sarah out as the car begin to burn. He had those burn scars on his arms from that incident and that look again.

Chief Burton abruptly turned and walked away to the utility streets behind the house, talking on the phone, asking questions, getting the estimate time of arrival and a composition of the police squad.

Yes, backup almost in place? the chief was conversing on the phone as he kept an eye on his wife in the car with his son.

Chief Burton asked, Is this Commander Stank?

Commander Stank replied, Yes.

Come to the backside when you get here. The chief felt someone walk up behind him.

Will do, said Commander Stank.

Chief Burton looked at his phone and turned, feeling a presence, and saw Commander Stank come up the utility street. Oh, you’re here.

On my way home two blocks over, heard the call. Jed… Commander Stank was the only one in the department who occasionally called him that.

Commander Stank said, Saw David; he’s still up, police jargon meaning alive.

Sarah heard Commander Stank. Oh God, my baby, my baby. She attempted to get out the car.

Dammit, Jeff, keep her there. He walked briskly over to the car. Sarah, give me your keys. You two get out of here, Chief Burton pleaded.

Meanwhile, Commander Stank checked in with his men, Are you in position? Okay, we’re ready. He turned back to Chief Burton.

Without thinking, both pulled their weapons, looking at each other knowingly. Chief Burton signaled he would go first, quietly sliding the key as quietly as possible in the backdoor deadbolt lock, then a quiet click. With one hand on his weapon, the other on the door, he tensely stared at Commander Stank, both poised, ready.

In they went – one darted left, the other right, covering each other’s back, sliding down the hallway, two hands on their weapons, eye level. Chief Burton into the utility room, Commander Stank into the kitchen. Room to room they slid, pulse racing, totally alert. From the dining room they saw David sitting cross-legged, still holding his left elbow with his right hand, rocking. They continued: living room, up the stairs, bathrooms, and bedrooms. Back downstairs, two down by the front door. Quick check, one dead, one beginning to move, then basement. Chief Burton came back to David. Commander Stank called on his radio, House secure, get your people in here.

David, son, open your eyes, it’s Dad. What happened?

They wanted my research papers, David spoke just above a whisper.

Son, why didn’t you give it to them?

He coughed. Didn’t know at first what they wanted, Dad.

Chief Burton, attempting to reassure, Everything’s going to be all right, placed David, assisted by Cmdr. Stank, on the classic Bolero sofa in the living room, first classic furniture they were able to purchase. Sarah loved the soft gray fabric, cushions’ front edges trimmed in dark brown, held beautifully within a light gold wooden baroque frame with matching wing-tip chairs. Chief Burton pulled a chair close to the sofa behind the shattered coffee table. Again, he asked, What happened, David?

David, coughing, face swollen, bleeding slightly from the nose, attempted to compose himself. First attempt to speak was exacerbated by the cough.

David, how’d they get in? Chief Burton noticed David was grimacing and weak and lowered his voice.

Lost carryon suitcase on the flight back. He said he found it, lived three blocks over. I opened the door. Daddy, I didn’t know what they wanted, David replied, grimacing.

Chief Burton asked, What’d you mean?

They kept asking where it is. Just didn’t know what he was talking about, until the end. He looked at his father, in pain, slightly grimacing again.

Chief Burton glanced up at Commander Stank, their exchange acknowledging the attack as professional.

Jesus, what happened to David? Jeff was standing behind them, looking down at David’s face in disbelief.

Jeff, who’s with your mother?

An officer. Mother insisted I looked in on David. He said and left for his old medical bag he kept in the trunk of his car. Jeff quietly returned with his medical bag.

Not yet, said Chief Burton, shaking his head at Jeff.

Dad, now Jeff was irritated, he needs treatment!

Dammit, not now. Chief Burton needed something more. But what? He turned back to David in a soothing voice, David, who are they?

Don’t know, Dad.

Chief Burton asked again, probing, What did they say?

Where is it, David barely whispered.

Chief Burton’s eyes fixed on his son. That’s all?

David nodded. Yes…

Dad… interrupted Jeff.

Dammit, Jeff, shut up! He looked back to David, speaking in a softer voice, Ever seen them before?

Shaking his head wearily, he replied, No, Dad.

Chief Burton studied his son’s face, shifting his thoughts. They look Greek to me.

Dad, they’re Israelis.

Chief Burton’s expression changed. But you said…you didn’t know?

David glanced up through good and swollen eyes. Know only accent, Dad.

Chief Burton. A heavy, set red haired, uniformed sergeant came in the living room. With Joseph cuffed at the wrists behind his back, the sergeant had one hand on the cuffs and shoved Joseph in the room.

Chief Burton looked up and over to the sergeant. Yeah.

The sergeant gestured to Joseph. He’s coming around, taking him down to book…

Yeah, I can see. He turned from his son to Joseph, his voice shifted warm to frigid.

Joseph, who had regained his faculties completely, felt it and saw it in his eyes. His special status would not protect him.

No, take that asshole in the kitchen, Chief Burton barked, barely able to contain his rage.

Sergeant said, Chief, there’s the question of diplomatic immunity with…

Dammit, Sgt. What did I say? Jeff saw the external carotid veins in his father’s left neck stand out beneath the skin and his pupils dilate. Chief Burton was cursing, fighting anger.

The sergeant backed out the living room, red-faced, pulling Joseph with him. Right, right, Chief.

Commander Stank said, Chief.

Chief Burton’s focus shifted to Commander Stank. Yeah.

Commander Stank passed a small brown wallet to him. Take a look. They drifted out the family room, down three steps where Joseph and Mammoth once laid crumbled like old, disheveled clothes, stepping over a still-moist spot. They walked out the front door over to the right on the manicured, green grass in front of the living-room window where David lay inside on the couch.

They stood in the shade under the cherry blossom tree. Chief Burton looked down at Mammoth’s brown wallet for a long moment, considering the consequences, then back up to Commander Stank. Both knew this was deep and dangerous and called for a delicate touch.

Chief Burton said, Damn, S.T., these guys are Israeli security agents. What in hell do they want with David’s religion’s notes?

Commander Stank said, Well, we’ve got one snake in the house. Let’s step on his tail and see what we get.

Chief Burton said, Of course, more likely they’re only mules and… He abruptly stopped talking as the ambulance rolled to a stop, bringing both of their attentions to it.

The two attendants removed the gurney from the back of ambulance and came up the sidewalk, deferential, and, almost in unison, spoke, Chief, Commander. They continued in the house. Texas Red, D.C. Cowboy. Chief Burton and Commander Stank returned the greeting, smiled, and walked back in the house. The two attendants were Dallas cowboys and Washington D.C. red skins football supporters and debated the merits of their team constantly.

After looking at the dead man’s identification, Chief Burton walked back in the house with Commander Stank – abandoned questioning David. I want a one-block security corridor around this house until Commander Stank calls it. Search, especially all rented vehicles. Also look out for embassy cars. Any suspicious incidents, well, you know the routine. Retain, take them to the precinct.

Jed, he called his oldest son in, take care of your brother.

Jeff made a quick assessment, Fractured nose, with mild deviated septum to the right. Three plus hematoma over the left peri-orbital area, but no fracture suggested of the orbital bone. Anterior dislocated of the left shoulder.

Chief Burton expression conveyed surprise. All that so quick?

Jeff, irritated, said, Dad, I am an orthopedic surgeon. Jesus.

Dr. Burton, are we ready? Texas Red spoke.

Dr. Burton essentially signaled no, waving his left hand, checking the three-cc syringe with his right.

After three-cc of Valium, Jeff reduced the shoulder, securing the elbow to David’s sidearm to his chest, palm over the right chest. He gave something for the pain, placed a dressing over the left eye, and packed the nose to stop the bleeding.

Dr. Burton looked up and smiled. Yes, now, Cowboy.

They raised the gurney and gently and professionally placed and secured David on the gurney.

Dr. Burton said, Silent night, slow ride on this one, Texas.

Texas replied, You got it, Doc.

David rode up 16th Avenue, comfortably sleeping in the ambulance, no siren blaring. He was headed to Howard University Hospital with his mother, brother, and sister-in-law. They had all come to surprise Mother for lunch instead were treated to a near disaster’s surprise.

In the kitchen with those killer eyes, Chief Burton began a 13th-century inquisition, Joseph was the subject.

Chapter 3

The ambulance turned right and headed up the beautiful, tree-lined 16th Avenue, the ‘Gold Coast.’ Inexpensive homes primarily begin at $400,000. The Gold Coast was the business community of Washington D.C., mostly Jewish community. After World War II, African Americans began to move in as the Jewish community began moving out. They were in a rush, almost evacuating fabulous homes, selling at bargain basement prices. Homes on one third acre lots or more in a metropolitan area, ‘Gold Coast’ was an apt name.

The ambulance continued up 16th Avenue, past Meridian Hill Park on the left. The park originated with the building of John Porter’s mansion, which he named Meridian Hill due to its location. It was on the exact longitude of the original District of Columbia’s milestone marker set by Major Andrew Ellicott, assisted by Benjamin Banneker in 1791, an African-American surveyor and scientist. Now unofficially known as Malcolm X Park.

David slept comfortably as his family observed him intensely. Dr. Jefferson ‘Jed’ Frank Burton called ahead to Dr. Johnson, chief of emergency medicine at Howard University Medical School. Dr. Burton closed his cellphone as they turned left onto U Street. Washington D.C. is laid out in beautiful grids, for the city streets have different nomenclatures: names, events, states, and prominent people, with intricate interconnected circles.

Now they were on U Street, heading to Seventh Avenue. The assassination of Dr. King brought in destruction. U Street was the major heart of the African-American business and entertainment community. Restaurants, cafes, nightclubs, small hotels, and banks lined the streets; the up and coming and prominent entertainers could be seen. Two blocks over was the Howard Theater, a beautifully designed great acoustics theater; even classical performances could be seen there . All the greatest entertainers played there. Duke, Count, Monk, etc.

On 14th and U stood the new beautiful D.C. administration building. Built by Marion Shepilov Barry Jr. Elected the second and fourth mayor of Washington D.C. A brilliant, intelligent, sensitive activist turned politician. Did great things for the city.

Howard University’s relatively new hospital was on the right, on the corner of 7th and U. David moved slightly as they turned onto Seventh Avenue.

The building is a golden, fortress-looking edifice surrounded by 12-foot bronze iron fence. The ambulance turned right onto the driveway in front of the hospital. Short left, then right, coming to a stop along the right side of building in front of the emergency entrance. Dr. Jefferson Burton could see 30 yards away the old medical school and research facility, a large red-brick building to the left, connected to the new hospital by a walkway one flight up.

Just in the distance past the old medical teaching facility, approximately 100 yards away, Dr. Jefferson Burton could see the old, red-brick Freedmen’s Hospital, first medical school for African Americans. Began in a converted army barracks in 1872 to care for the onrush of slaves, free blacks, and black Union soldiers coming into the city after the Civil War.

Some say the federal government educational mandate for the hospital later ‘Howard University’ was parental concerns. That is, the education of their children. For years, if you didn’t look white or were not very light-skinned, it was very difficult being admitted to Howard University – ‘if you’re light, you’re all right, if you’re brown stick around, if you’re black, get back’ was a well-known expression and feeling in the African-American community.

David had surgical reduction of his fractured nose that evening; placed on the post-op surgery floor. Chief Burton had David placed at the end of the corridor for security reasons, with two officers outside the door.

David opened his eyes one day later. What happened? He was feeling the surgical support slain for his reduced left dislocated shoulder, reduced nose fracture with packing in his nose, and bandages covering the right eye. around one eye.

That’s what we’re going to find out, Son.

Both were referring to the encounter at his parents’ home.

Chapter 4

Damien P. Brizion, standing on the bow of his mega yacht, Excalibur, raised his binoculars to watch the Euro Copter EC135 helicopter hurtling toward him across the blue international waters off the coast of Monte Carlo.

Brizion watched, barely able to contain his excitement, as the helicopter descended to the helicopter pad on the mega-yacht Excalibur. He stood on the bow, looking out on the blue water, and could barely contain his excitement as the helicopter, seemingly in slow motion, floated above the helicopter pad.

His man seemed to slowly crawl off the helicopter as Brizion watched anxiously on his silver-and-blue, 87-thousand tons, 450 feet from stern to bow of the Excalibur. She was gently rolling in the blue water ten miles out from Monte Carlo, capital of the famous, powerful, wealthy, and beautiful people.

Jason delivered the stolen briefcase to Mr. B quickly and returned to the helicopter and departed. It was 8:40 a.m., one day after David’s hospitalization.

Brizion stood on the bow, looking out on the blue Mediterranean water, full of anticipation. Could this be it? He’d been on this journey better than 20 years.

Excited, with excitement, Brizion, rushing with the brown briefcase to his stateroom, placed it on the large mahogany desk designed for the room. He walked over to the panoramic windows, mentally gathering himself.

He read and reread it with great disappointment three times. He had wasted a good contact, possibly showed his hand. Those fools, they were to secure the package above all else and bring the professor. Smiling, steering out the panorama window in his stateroom, he was sure D.C.’s investigation would go nowhere. The agents were protected by diplomatic immunity. He was more concerned by the other possibility, being recognized by his footprints. Fortunately they were well-immersed in Mossad security, he thought.

A cold glass of champagne in the morning always relaxed him. Your drink, sir.

Thank you, Leroy.

Despairing, Brizion sat in the stateroom and stared out the window behind the oversized desks, pondering over the fits and starts of this venture. Close to a sense of resignation, this was not going to happen, or it actually didn’t exist. Enraged with those idiots, the Jewish religion academics. They would debate the significance of vein structure of a leaf, on a tree, in a forest, for 50 years before deciding what kind of tree and its location in what forest. They have essentially published nothing on the Dead Sea Scrolls in the 60 years since their discovery.

Finishing his glass of champagne, he smiled as he gazed at Dr. Burton’s notes. Strange life interest for a young black, he thought. ‘Classic Greek studies.’ Without thinking, he flipped to ‘Greek gods of Egyptian roots’ and found the topic intriguing but baffling. Money, which is synonymous with power and women, were his compulsion. His thoughts were blunt, almost brutish regarding women views, except, of course, ‘himself’; their views toward him. He considered (of course without deep intellectual pursuit) women were like bees to nectar; no matter how disgusting men are, they still flock to power.

He began reading about the Olympian gods in Dr. Burton’s notes. Just like men, after killing their father, Zeus accepted rule of the sky. First thing he and the other gods did was exclude the goddesses from real power. Demeter, goddess of harvest, hearth, and fertility. Hestia, firstborn of the six children of Rhea and Cronus. Goddess of hearth, fire, and most virtuous. Hera, goddess of love, marriage, queen of the heavens, most powerful, beautiful, and most desired.

He turned from his desk, looked again out the windows, not seeing the sparkling blue waters off the coast of Monte Carlo, and spoke in a low, disgusted voice, And the first thing the Olympian’s all-knowing gods did was exclude the goddesses. Shaking his head, he now reached for a glass of brandy on a gold medal stand next to the desk. Damn, what a mythology. Brizion leaned back, turned his chair away from the desk and began reading the rough outlines of David’s notes. Too technical, he turned back to the desk and placed the notes to the side.

He arranged four almost-out-of-focus photographs, obvious copies in front of him. It began to dawn on him what was staring back. Hestia, Demeter, and Hera on three of the sides of an obelisk. However, this statue had a fourth figure he’d seen through the years. He found her intriguing, the mythology he’d discounted. The figure was more prominent, taller, and larger; Isis commanded his attention.

Isis, one of nine Egyptian Pesedjets, the oldest of the Egyptian Pantheons. Later the Greeks would translates Pesedjet to Ennead. Using virtually the same mythology thousands of years later, they constructed their Ennead, ‘Pantheon of gods.’ Isis was not excluded in Egyptian mythology as the goddesses of Greek mythology were. She is all three Greek goddess and more. She is the embodiment of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Of course, he knew only vaguely the name, not her influence on religious doctrine philosophy and symbolism through the millennium. As with western civilizations except for religious scholars ‘to obtain or retain one’s tenure at universities, it’s not emphasized nor written about’; it eluded him. Under Isis figure, there were Greek numbers below them, arcane letters and symbols he couldn’t decipher. Below that there was a much-smaller, another line of numerical symbols. Suddenly, he stopped reading and felt suspended in space.

He had seen them before, never together. They were on the Copper Scroll, the identical symbols. He sat back, breathless, images rushing in, places, time, and colors with intense emotion. After another sip of brandy, he reached for the phone on his large mahogany desk.

Monte Carlo evenings were always glorious, this evening especially. A soft breeze blew from the west, with an early full moon which danced on the blue water as the Excalibur swayed gently. The setting was fabulous; the brandy relaxed him as he waited in his stateroom.

Kimbar came up quietly behind him. Mr. B, your assessment was correct. However, there is more.

Brizion’s face became warm red with excitement. What do you mean?!

Kimbar responded. Brizion liked the first, not the second response, the possibility it could lead to other sites. We will need to speak with him.

Brizion’s voice intoned an edge, Not for locations. You all are experts; you’ve been looking longer than him, sounding exacerbated.

Kimbar responded without compensating tension. Reluctantly, Brizion agreed with the logic of Kimbar – They could spend the next five years tracing the arcane symbolism Dr. Barton stumbled on.

Kimbar was a small man with olive skin, blank face, and a quick manner of speaking in precise detail. Damien P. Brizion was large, occidental-looking, felt the details in the broad sweep of ideas. He had a confident way of speaking as wealth will give you. Neither trusted the other completely; it was a good match for the mission. After their discussion, Brizion understood the working papers they received from Dr. Burton’s small carryon briefcase was a very early draft, with notes along the edges and questions. It, of course, was not the paper revealed to Dr. Schaeffer at the Copper Scroll conference. But there are inference to narrowing the focus. He was excited about that.

Okay, I see your point, he said, taking a long draw on his cigar he had just lit. Well, that’s what we’ll do. We’ve got to get him, said Brizion. He’s got something in his papers, symbolically in arcane classical Greek. We cannot read it. He can, but he doesn’t know its significance.

Brizion leaned back in his chair and took a big draw on his cigar and a sip of brandy and felt confident again. And we can’t afford the professor to learn its significance.

Exactly, said Kimbar.

Brizion nodded with a distant look, speaking low, apparently to himself, If this is the key – or leads to a key, it changes everything.

Kimbar, now sitting on the couch, led in, Yes, exactly. We shall find Dr. Burton and abduct him.

Brizion slowly stood, walked to the panoramic windows, and gazed across the blue water at the city of beautiful people. It always reminded him of Christmas and New York, at night. After a long slow draw on his cigar and another sip of brandy, he turned back to Kimbar. Yeah, but no screw-ups this time.

Chapter 5

Number Two still loved John Coltrane; all of it was still relevant to him. He sat in the dark in his study, listening to Coltrane’s classic, ‘A Love Supreme.’ He had a plethora of books, articles, research papers, and magazines along with albums and CDs in the study. His music was mostly jazz and classical, collected through the years. He took a long draw of marijuana, exhaled slowly, and drifted deeper in the music, smiling, thinking of his old friend.

Hell, man, that’s not incongruent, jazz and classical music, only jazz is deeper, yeah. He smiled, thinking of Charles. He always had the right timing with the appropriate phrase: In the pocket, nothing but net, or groove, referring to the old vinyl albums, later the cut. They all meant – perfect. Yeah, enjoy the ride; he closed his eyes, feeling a sense of absence. Charles died five years ago of leukemia complications.

He leaned back in the chair, listening to the legendary jazz saxophonist of the late ’60s, Coltrane. He sipped his brandy, took another long draw of marijuana, and slowly exhaled. He always loved a puff or two; it relaxed him, cleared his mind, as he lifted his glass to Charles.

He focused back on the issue. This could be it. Dr. David Burton must know something intriguing for Brizion to go after him, leaving his footprints, faded as they were. He chuckled as he exhaled again, feeling the high sensation begin to engulf him.

Number Two finally had a sense of excitement stirring in him. He had received information related to Brizion’s missteps. Awaiting a fuller report – and the first report on Dr. David Burton this evening.

Chapter 6

In this setting, alcohol always gave the assurance of disinfection, especially in hospital rooms; the aroma was distinct. Also, every sound and movement is magnified at night, particularly in patient rooms. One could hear the low hum of air flow through two one-foot vents in the ceiling, 11:30 at night.

Over the head of the bed, extended one foot from the attached wall was a one-foot-by-six-foot rectangular box. Encased in the box in white bubble plastic were two, soft, warm lights illuminating the room. By the right side of the bed stood a silver metal pole. At the top, on a hook, hung 500 CC’s of normal saline solution. The intravenous line was in the right cephalic vein; no solution was flowing. The IV line had a lock cap. Written above it on tape was KVO, ‘Keep vein open.’ For now, it was only used for medication or flushing the vein.

David slept peaceful; his last pain medication was 11 p.m., 30 minutes ago. Officer Clark, six months out of the academy, sat outside room 215. He sat to the right of the door so could occasionally look out the window. David’s room was at the end of the corridor. Four doors from the elevator, counting his door. Office Clark’s walkie-talkie barked, I’m coming up, want anything? He smiled; he always did.

Yeah. Ham and cheese. Oh, coffee too. He had a report to give. Besides, the snack would give him a chance to chat; he wanted to know the results of the championship fight that night.

David’s nurse was with all the nurses on the floor, giving reports at the nurse’s station for the next shift. Jackson, short, round, red African-American with freckles, coming on duty was David’s nurse. He was one of the LPNs, counted the control medications in the nurses’ station ten doors from David’s room.

The floor was quiet, except for an orderly pushing a patient out of the elevator back to his room. The elevator door remained open.

Officer Clark looked up from the sports section of the Washington Post back to the story of the coming championship fight which occurred that night.

He glanced up and spoke as the orderly reached for the door of room 215, David’s room. Wrong room… Two rapid puffed sounds rang out.

Officer Clark slumped back into the chair; two bullets slammed into his left chest. One fracturing the sixth rib, the other shattering the left ventricle of his heart. Quickly, they sat Officer Clark up, placed his hat low over his eyes, and put the paper back in his lap, which covered his chest.

They entered David’s room quickly. One stepped out of the wheelchair and from his gown pulled a five-cc syringe out and unlocked the IV line attached to David. He delivered two-ccs of Valium to David through his intravenous line, then flushed the line with normal saline solution that hung from the IV pole and relocked the intravenous line taped to David’s arm. He quickly disconnected David from the IV line attached to the normal saline bag and from his hospital gown pressure-taped over the cephalic vein where the IV line had been.

The two men placed David in the wheelchair and placed David’s hospital coat, which was hanging on the hook of the bathroom door, around his shoulders and the blanket in his lap from the foot of the bed.

They emerged from the room and headed for the open elevator, with David in the wheelchair. David’s nurse headed back to his room. Her last temperature reading was different from her LPN’s. She saw two strange-looking orderlies pushing her patient toward the elevator.

Walking fast six doors from them, David’s nurse called out, What’re you doing? One puff sound rang out; the bullet struck Helen in the left side of her neck, which sent her screaming, bleeding against the wall, collapsing to the floor. Suddenly, the floor was full of nurses’ and patients’ noise and confusion in a once-quiet corridor.

Officer Johnson heard the screams and came running up the last flight of the emergency stairs. What happened? he asked, eyes wide, staring at the short charge nurse.

She’s shot; they shot her, screamed the oncoming charge nurse frantically.

Officer Johnson looked at the frantic nurse intensely. What, who’s shot?

The frantic charge nurse gained some composure and lowered her voice, They shot her – two men in orderly clothing.

Glancing past the frantic nurses, Officer Johnson saw Officer Clark on the floor with a pool of blood around him with two nurses and Doctor Ward, the resident attending him. A nurse was closer on the floor. Another intern, two LPNs around her. The front of her white uniform was soaked in blood and splatter of blood was on the wall near her. Officer Johnson started past the bodies toward David’s room.

No, no! yelled the charge nurse. They took the elevator.

The elevator. Officer Johnson looked puzzled.

Ground floor, they’re heading for the ground floor with the patient, she exploded. They’re heading for the ground-floor emergency-exit door, off the elevator.

Again, Officer Johnson looked puzzled. Frantically, she pointed to the emergency exit he had just come up. That end!

Officer Johnson ran to the emergency stairs, weapon in one hand and walkie-talkie in the other. Calling all officers near Howard Hospital. One officer and nurse down, shot. Two suspects headed for ground-floor emergency exit, Maryland side, with security patient Doctor Burton. All officers in the area respond, respond. He repeated the same message as he reached the first floor.

Chapter 7

What a fight, what a fight. Split decision, could’ve gone either way. As a former boxer, he knew they were technically sound, giving no quarter, both unbeaten, and the champion fighting the number-one contender. Leaning back in his easy chair, Chief Burton smiled with satisfaction and took a drink of wine. Damn, couldn’t get any better.

Sarah was right, as he started the police sedan. After a fight, he was excited and not able to sleep. Thought he would do his usual routine, drive into the city. It’s always beautiful at night. A round trip of 40 to 50 minutes. He loved seeing the Capitol in full regalia at night. At 16th and U Street, he decided to look in on his son.

He heard the emergency call as he turned on 7th Avenue for Howard University.

Security was late cutting the elevator off before the goons reached the ground floor. One of the abductors held David back in the wheelchair; he slept with his head bobbing forward. They saw the exit light 20 feet away and moved toward the exit door quickly. The gray Honda was exactly where they left it ten yards from the door.

As the goons rushed forward on a slight declining walkway, they heard a police car siren blaring, turning right off 7th Avenue onto the hospital grounds. Seconds later, a second squad car slid to a halt and blocked their exit. Releasing the wheelchair, one goon rushed toward the driver’s door; the lights over the emergency door highlighted him. As the wheelchair careened down the walkway, the right wheel ran off the walkway, spilling David onto the soft damp grass, still fast asleep, with the blanket from his lap under him and his hospital coat partially over his back.

Both men ducked behind the Honda; a gunfight erupted. One goon attempted to open the driver’s door and was shot in the head and killed instantly. The other shot the overhead emergency light out and ran down besides the dark building; a manhunt began.

Chief Burton was the second car to arrive and found David unharmed and face-down on the cool grass, asleep. At that moment, a man in hospital clothes ran out the emergency door. Still with his gun out, Chief Burton pointed it and yelled, Who are you? Get down, get face-down!

I’m LPN Jackson. Just came on duty; David is my patient. Wide-eyed, staring at the weapon, Jackson continued to speak, I’m on the midnight shift, and…

Shut up, yelled Chief Burton, thinking, This guy can’t stop talking. He quickly searched Jackson. Stand up, he spoke with an edge and authority, give me your ID. Close that wheelchair and put it in the front seat. Help me put David in the back.

Chief locked his car and walked over to the other officer’s car, identifying himself. They were routinely securing this area until he made the call. In addition, no one should approach the squad car – except the nurse standing by it now. He walked back over to his squad car and spoke with LPN Jackson, Don’t leave this car, I’ll be right back. You got that? staring, practically yelling at Jackson.

Jackson replied, Yes, sir. For once, he had nothing to add.

The west wing second floor was still hectic with hospital personnel and police. Chief Burton, showing his badge, spoke to the oncoming charge nurse, Give me LPN Jackson’s car keys, and I need your phone a moment.

Thoughts of the recent chaotic violence on the floor came to mind as he stepped away from the desk and quickly made his call. S.T., sorry calling so late. Chief Burton was concerned he might accidentally call Commander Stank ‘Stink’ when they first met, so he abbreviated his name. I need your big Lincoln tonight.

Commander Stank was surprised. Hey, what happened?

They tried to take David again, said the chief.

Commander Stank asked, What!?

Yeah, two of them, the chief lower his voice, standing by the nurse station. He’s okay. Hell, an officer and nurse dead on the floor, also one of them by the exit door. Can you meet me at Pen. And 8th.

S.T. said, Okay.

Chief Burton asked, You know that alley?

Commander Stank replied, Yeah.

The one next to the Chinese restaurant, with the red door. At this point, Chief Burton reached for certainty.

Yeah. Commander Stank felt it in his voice – this was going deep.

Chief Burton looked around at the nursing station, speaking low again, I’ll be there in 15 minutes. Oh, could you bring a blanket and a pillow?

Commander Stank replied, Yeah, Chief, will take me 20.

That’s good. He turned back to the nursing station and gave the phone back to the nurse. I need to speak with the senior doctor. The corridor was quiet now; the officer and nurse removed, the area now was antiseptically cleaned. The patients were quiet in their rooms. Chief Burton was surveying the area, thinking of his reliable friend S.T.

I’m Dr. Johnson , came a voice from behind the desk.

We need to talk, Doctor, said chief Burton. Both walked down the corridor toward the elevator. Chief Burton discussed the evening’s events with Dr. Johnson . I need you, on paper, to reassign Dr. Burton a room. If they think he’s still here, he is less at risk. There’ll be additional security on the floor. I also need at least a week’s supply of his medications. Oh, and pain meds.

I can reassign him a room, but I can’t prescribe medication for a week to take a…

Chief Burton exploded, what’s wrong with you? You can, dammit, and you will! You want him in continuous pain or die of infection, with all of this hitting the front page of the newspapers? Dammit, get it, get it from the nursing station or the pharmacy – call someone. You know we can’t keep him here.

It wasn’t the explosive temper, but the reality of the situation convinced the physician. I understand. He was senior resident and called the attending physician.

It’s a matter of life or death. No deviating from the plan. Explain it to the charge nurses; no one but her, or a physician in or out the room, without a security officer. Call me after it’s set up. He gave Dr. Johnson his number.

Back outside, Chief barked orders at LPN Jackson as he unlocked and opened the door to his squad car. Take off your nursing uniform.

What?! Without time for embarrassment, LPN Jackson stood staring, baffled.

First, help me remove David’s gown. Chief Burton pointed to David’s hospital coat lying next to the wheelchair, sprawled on the ground. Get the hospital coat. Throw it in the back, wheelchair in the front seat. And take off your uniform.

Jackson stared at Chief Burton. What?

Dammit, Jackson, take off your nursing uniform! Throw it in the back. Here, put on David’s gown; get in the back. Chief Burton drove around to the emergency entrance, got out, and appeared to push a patient in a wheelchair into the emergency entrance. He pushed Jackson in the wheelchair into a side-changing room before the emergency staff saw them. Here are your keys. You are off duty tonight. Put on a scrub suit, go home. Don’t talk to anyone about this, you got that?

Yes, sir. Again, LPN Jackson had no antidotes or comments.

Chief Burton leaned over the gray, disheveled, emergency-room desk, showing his badge once again to a plump, frazzled, dark-skinned nurse apparently speaking to two doctors and a nurse simultaneously. Chief Burton added a fourth voice to her minuet I’m Chief Burton; I need to use your phone.

The chief needed to inform his wife he would not be home tonight – not rare; she wouldn’t be concerned, but he didn’t inform her of the incident. Then he called retired Commissioner Byington.

Byington, retired, served about ten years as police commissioner. One of Chief Burton’s oldest friends of 20 years or more. Byington was a sergeant when Chief Burton came out of the academy. Byington’s family was from the Eastern Shenandoah Mountains. Scottish-Irish mountain folks, there’s a history of oppression poverty and prejudice; ‘backward mountain folks.’ Such was not the case with Burton nor did he project it. Though both outsiders, Burton was one of the first African-American in the department. They had a natural affinity; Sergeant Byington took the newcomer under his wing.

Byington shook his head as Chief Burton finished the story. Burton, you got any idea what the hell’s going on?

No, I need time. Should get there in a couple of hours. He closed the cellphone, paused for a moment, and stared down at his peaceful-looking son. Chief bent over, reached in the squad car, and propped David’s head up to get him in the Lincoln. Once he got him in the backseat with the help of Commander Stank, he placed his head on the pillow, the hospital coat then blanket over him; David moved slightly, still sleeping from the Valium.

You gonna be okay? You need me along? asked S.T.

Chief Burton shook his old friend’s hand. No, man, this is great. Thanks, thanks.

Shenandoah Mountains are part of the backbone of the skeleton of the country, running through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina before declining in Georgia. Burton was heading for the Blue Ridge scenic view. From Washington D.C. at night, it was a magnificent vista, but a slow drive into the mountains felt as if it was a constant incline; fortunately, his destination was just hours away. The rustic drive often reminded him of the past, of the nation’s past. When appearance was real, when hard work meant physical, when you knew what you were getting, good or bad.

His journey once was steeped in physicality of realness. Now the destination was mostly mental; all his life, when possible, he returned, spiritually or physically, to this place. This urgency and restlessness of living would be replaced for a while with solitude, peacefulness, where he felt one with nature. Chief Burton remembered his first drive up with his old friend like yesterday. This time, the drive was fraught with drama. He glanced at the sign, passing Fairfax Virginia. Now on the outskirts of Fairfax, there were fewer and fewer homes with wider and wider, magnificent views. Not many years ago, one had to drive on two-lane roads winding into the mountains.

Virginia House of Burgesses voted to establish Fairfax in honor of Thomas Fairfax, February 22, 1739, the sixth lord of Cameron, who was proprietary of the northern neck of the Rappahannock River, a vast property stretching from the Chesapeake Bay to what is now Hampshire county of West Virginia. Chief Burton smiled. Yes, David was the history buff in the family. He remembered David reading it to him at 15. Now Fairfax Virginia is a bedroom community for the Washington D.C. metropolitan area.

He glanced over at the small, peculiar-shaped buildings now dimly lit. They were jokingly called art shops, those colorful wooden buildings selling food, gas, a few weird-looking mechanical devices now things called antiques. All interspersed canvassing the path into the mounting, reaching out to the tenderfoot’s ascending.

Where once lay in front of him rustic, poor-shouldered two-lane highways that demanded intense concentration, now there were patches of four-lane highways with McDonald’s, Burger King, all manner of shops all with bright neon lights. High and low-end hotels and restaurants. There had always been famous five-star restaurants at the foothills of the mountains, now it was the place to be seen for the nouveau celebrities and powerful. No rustic roads for them.

Up past neon lights approaching mountain country, it was really night now; he was thankful for a full moon. He was nearing the Blue Ridge parkway’s famous scenic drive some 30 minutes away, but he was not heading to the scenic drive. Smiling to himself, he thought nearing Brown Town, remembering not to make that mistake again. Last time he ended up in Brown Town which was not his destination.

He turned left onto county road Route 522; he knew the area well. The family had taken many vacations from Washington’s stifling summer humidity into the cool mountains in June, July, even August. The family loved recreating on the Rappahannock River, Front Royal canoeing and its famous Skyline Caves with its anchorites. The caves discovered in 1937 by Doctor Walter Amos, a geologist.

No, he was heading for Flint Hill, two miles east of Shenandoah National Park, nestled in Rappahannock County, Northern Virginia. Flint Hill lay beside the historic Richmond Road, once the main road into the mountains from the Capitol. Chief Burton made a left off Route 522 onto Seminary Road. Ten minutes later, with the full moon’s assistance, he saw the turn off Seminary Road. It was a bumpy clay road that became a driveway that felt familiar and comfortable. Chief Burton welcomed the view of the yellow pale house set on 65 acres with the mountains as its backdrop. The house was 300 yards from the gate. It was a large wooden house built by Commissioner Byington’s great grandfather, added to in sessions by his grandfather, father, and by him.

Three hours after arriving, David looked up. Dad, Uncle B. That’s what he called Commissioner Byington from the age of five. Too many syllables; just call me Uncle B. Kyle was standing in the room as well, Byington’s oldest son, home from college break. Byington’s wife died some years ago. What, where am I?

Chief Burton painted the evening’s picture for his son. David looked as if he would scream.

You’ll stay here until I find out what’s going on. No one knows where you are. The shock and the residual Valium sent David back into a deep sleep. When Chief Burton finally reached the city, he turned onto 16th Street past Meridian Park. He spoke out loud, Well, David is safe, glancing at his watch, 6:45 a.m.

David woke 7:12 a.m. Kyle was sitting by the bed. David could see past the handmade, 18th century, off-white-painted Chester drawer, through the window, at the intermittent clouds floating by; the green majestic inviting Shenandoah Mountains called to him. You been here all night? he asked Kyle.

No, just the last 15 minutes. Kyle looked at David’s face and hoped his