Heresy

By Rob Parnell

A sexy TV presenter and a Harvard rich kid must join forces to confront Big Pharma and a ruthless terrorist cell to unlock the mystery of the Biblical crucifixion and prevent an earth-shattering apocalypse.

 

Near the Dead Sea, the occupants of a sleepy Kibbutz are massacred by a vicious group of mercenaries looking for an ancient religious artifact. 

 

In Boston, an elderly Jewish professor is brutally slain, alerting the CIA.

 

In England, two bestselling authors are firebombed, killing them instantly.

 

So begins this exciting archeological thriller where Danica Pearson, the beautiful young TV presenter of Strange Encounters must join forces with a disgraced psychic. After a rocky start, the two young adventurers are on the trail of a nefarious plot to undermine the entire world order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Books Film Music
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224377862

Book preview

Just because a man died for it, doesn’t make it true.

Oscar Wilde

PART ONE

Chapter One

––––––––

Shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun, Hashim looked toward the Western horizon. He heard the familiar beat of chopper blades before seeing them. Within a few seconds a black speck swept in low across the desert, disturbing sand and dirt in its wake.

The young boy was wiry, his eyes pale green, skin tanned brown and weather-beaten from a lifetime of playing in the hot desert sun. He sported a ragged old Metallica T-shirt and faded jeans. A red hand-me-down bandanna covered his dark hair and he wore leather sandals on his feet.

Living on The West Bank, near the Dead Sea, the thirteen-year-old had grown used to military activity during his time there. Israeli, Palestinian, Jordanian, and NATO aircraft made all too regular sorties across the disputed land of his forefathers. Despite the disruption to his day, Hashim was not unduly alarmed by the sight of sophisticated military hardware.

At first.

But as the black helicopter drew closer, unease tightened in the teenager’s chest. Unusually, there were no markings on the matte black exterior. But there were armaments. Lots of them. Rockets, bombs, and what looked like an array of radar and sonar tracking devices with the tell-tale red dots of laser guidance systems. And curiously, the sound of chopper blades grew muted as the dark hulk approached, as though hi-tech sonic damping was in use.

As the ominous craft flew overhead, warm wind that smelled of burnt oil and dust ruffled the boy's clothes, like dread taking physical form, sweeping over him.

I must warn Pastor Ibrahim, the boy thought, turning quickly on his heels. Without further delay, Hashim ran full pelt across the dry earth toward his home, the Kalia kibbutz.

The boy raced hard across the sand. He could see the domed roof of St. John's Church rising from amid the cluster of olive trees in the distance, just beyond the crumbling stone walls surrounding the place of his birth.

He took a sharp left turn at the edge of town and sprinted down an alleyway, passing homes built with mud and reed bricks that had stood for centuries on this land. His feet pounded against the dry earth and cobblestone as he flew by buildings draped with ragged prayer flags, ancient symbols of faith that gave courage to those living in these troubled times.

As he reached the town square, his heart pounded when he saw St. John’s was locked tight. For a brief moment, he considered turning back but then he ducked down and headed for the church doors.

The chopper's shadow hung over him like a vulture, but he didn't stop.

*

Pastor Ibrahim Al-Dawud dozed at his desk. His beard was coarse and knotted, like palm fronds twisted and left out in the sun to bake. His clothes were old but serviceable: a charcoal cassock knotted with thick black string. A tattered leather-bound Bible lay in front of him, open at his favorite passage: the resurrection of Lazarus in the Gospel of John. The Jordanian priest had grown tired during his voluntary fast that week and had let his eyes close in the stifling heat of his small brick-lined study.

In his mind he saw the almighty Christ, wearing a simple white robe, his arms extended, calling to the Pastor. Jesus held his gaze, his eyes imploring.

Where have ye laid him?

The pastor opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Jesus was asking him for the location of Lazarus, his dear friend, the man he had come to save. Ibrahim knew the answer but could not tell the Lord. He could not speak, he could not lie to his master. In his troubled dream, thunder cracked overhead and the image of the Messiah dissolved like fractured glass.

Ibrahim was jolted awake by an incessant pounding on the church outer door. Disoriented, he wheezed as he stood and made toward the sound. He pulled back the carpet that acted as a door and stepped beyond into the chancel, which was dark and cool, despite the burning sun outside. Small windows housed heavy stained glass, barely illuminating the dusty interior. A metal crucifix on the crude altar glinted dully in the half-light.

Father! Father, quickly! The voice came from beyond the locked church doors and belonged to Hashim, the pastor's thirteen-year-old charge. He sounded upset and out of breath. Dimly, Ibrahim was aware of the whup-whup of heavy blades beating the air outside.

On my way, Hashim, the pastor said through gritted teeth.

Ibrahim navigated the twenty pews that represented the church's total capacity and retrieved a key to the double doors from a chain that hung on the wall near the door. The pounding intensified.

Father!

I'm here, Hashim. Don't fret so!

The pastor hauled open the doors. Sunlight burst through like a flood. The old man squinted at the silhouette of Hashim. Beyond, Ibrahim saw a black helicopter hovering above the palm trees about a hundred meters away. Sand and dirt spiraled upwards like some incorporeal phantom. Engines pulsed, whirring loudly.

Father! They're here!

Ibrahim wasted no time. He grabbed the boy and tugged him inside the church, quickly pushing the doors closed, turning the key in the lock. Hashim helped him pick up a heavy wooden plank which they slotted into two struts on the doors.

Come with me, Ibrahim rasped. You must help me. 

They hurried to the back of the church. Stepping behind the altar, Ibrahim lifted a thin yellowing cloth that hid what appeared to be a slight depression in the plaster wall.

Break it, the priest ordered, pointing. Here!

The young man knelt in front of the wall and tested the surface with his hands.

Break it, now! 

Hashim genuflected then balled his fists. Punched. The plaster easily split and fell away from the wall. Ibrahim pulled the boy out of the way and reached his arm inside the hole. An old wooden cask the size of a small cinder block came out in the pastor's grasp.

Outside, they could hear the helicopter was landing. Close. Ibrahim wasted no time as he placed the cask in front of them and opened the old time-worn lid. Hashim saw the container was filled with sheaves of parchment, ancient but preserved inside transparent plastic bags, held together with tattered string.

The priest dropped to his knees and looked up to the heavens, his eyes lit with a holy fire. Ibrahim grasped the young man by both shoulders and looked into his eyes. You must protect these scrolls, Hashim. An evil is coming that threatens us all. This is our family's legacy, Ibrahim said, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. We must protect these secrets at all costs.

Hashim nodded solemnly as he stared into the eyes of his mentor. His heart ached. The chopper blades slowed, louder now, closer than before. Ibrahim closed the cask and handed the string bound parchments to Hashim, who stuffed them inside his T-shirt, which he tucked into his jeans. Then he pushed Hashim towards the rear exit of the church. In the crypt he hauled back an old woven rug that led to a stone alcove. They both went inside. In the semi darkness, Ibrahim pushed aside a wooden ottoman to reveal a tunnel dug into the ground, barely large enough for Hashim to fit. In silence, the Pastor motioned for the boy to enter the tunnel. Go now, he whispered, quickly.

Father, please— Hashim said.

Hush, child. Leave. Don’t concern yourself over my fate. It’s time for me to meet my God.

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked to the tunnel. The Pastor pushed him inside, as a loud explosion rocked the building.

*

Outside, in the town’s dusty square, the helicopter had landed in front of the church. Out spilled four commandos dressed in desert fatigues with no insignia. Each wore a military helmet with mirrored head-up displays and a small camera bolted at eye level. The men held Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles with M320 portable grenade launchers attached. Exchanging hand signals with each other, two soldiers separated from the group and ran around the back of the building while the other two stood in front of the church doors, awaiting orders.

Guus Van deHoor stepped out of the chopper. The ugly man was tall and rake thin, in his mid-forties. Unlike the others, his bald head was not helmeted and he wore an incongruous red acrylic jumpsuit that was baggy around the waist and thighs. His shaved head was a mass of pock-marks and livid scars. His right ear had almost melted away to nothing, most likely the result of some prior fire injury. On the other ear hung a thin radio microphone that extended round to his mouth. He scowled with distaste as he took in his surroundings. Gold teeth briefly dominated his face.

DeHoor didn't know what he'd expected. Not this. A desert oasis, ancient and without modern amenities. Not so much a town as a collection of distasteful hovels. Hardly a church, either. More a brick shack with a corrugated tin roof, no doubt hastily built and often repaired by devout Christian locals. The shabby structure was maybe thirty years old, more, perhaps a hundred. On the dome, the rudimentary metal cross was broken.

A small crowd of disheveled people had gathered off to the side of the main street, drawn away from their work on the kibbutz to witness the new arrivals.

Back, fools! DeHoor barked. Now.

The two commandos turned their rifles on the gathering of souls who, clearly fearful, retreated. A shapeless woman with leathery skin dressed in rags, clutched at her child to pull him back - too late. The small boy, barely six years old, ran towards one of the gunmen. A blast of automatic gunfire shredded the boy's body into a mist of blood and ruptured flesh. The woman shrieked as the child dropped to the ground. The crowd scattered as a couple of old men hauled away the inconsolable mother.

Fucking peasants, DeHoor hissed, his voice low, guttural.

The commandos retrained their sights on the church. One of the men glanced at DeHoor, who nodded his assent. The soldier then stepped forward to the door and tested the dense wood with a gloved hand. He stood clear and fired a dozen rounds into its center. The surface splintered, flaking blue paint replaced by a patchwork of bullet holes. The soldier tested the door again but the entrance remained shut. He took several paces backward. The other commando also retreated, acting on instinct. The soldier inputted data into a small keypad on his wrist which then, with a screeching whoosh, unleashed a grenade from his launcher. The missile punched a small hole through the wood before exploding, as programmed, on the inside of the church. The doors flew outward in a deafening storm of dust, broken wood, glass splinters, and concrete.

Before the cloud settled, the soldiers entered the church.

DeHoor waited, listening appreciatively to the sound of cacophonous gunfire, breaking windows and destroyed masonry. In places the walls erupted, broken apart from the onslaught within.

Halt, DeHoor said into his mic. The assault immediately ended. The Dutch Afrikaan sauntered up to the ruined church and stepped through the dusty threshold.

Inside, the place was a total mess.

Good. DeHoor hated places like this. Places of worship. Worship of what? Of whom? God? Ridiculous. There was no god sitting on high. Only the god inside DeHoor. He was the only one that mattered.

Among the debris his troops overturned rubble, kicked at crumbling brick and attempted to clear what was left of the pews and the altar. A large golden crucifix lay amid the plaster, broken in half and bullet-dented. DeHoor made his way through an arch to the side of the chancel into the pastor's study. The room appeared empty.

Status? DeHoor spat into the mic.

An English voice replied, Building and exits clear, sir.

DeHoor pursed his lips. He saw legs poking out from behind the table. He wandered round to get a better look. The body and head of a country priest were covered with dark red splotches. Dead. A pathetic old man, clutching a rosary.

DeHoor examined the table top. Nothing there apart from an ancient Bible and some candles. The parchments? Static crackled in DeHoor's ear-piece for two, three, four seconds. Well?

Negative, sir.

Anger flared in the commander's face. He turned to leave.

Raze the fucking place, he whispered into his mic.

Without mercy, the highly trained and equally well-paid soldiers of fortune carried out their orders with relish.

Chapter Two

Do you believe the Dead Sea Scrolls contain the Word of God? Doug asked.

It depends on what you define as ‘the Word of God’, Mr. Moss. The elderly Bishop of Winchester, His Excellency Edwin Hawksmoor, sighed as he stroked his perfectly groomed beard. He eyed Doug and Sarah with a mixture of discomfort and uncertainty. "In the strictest sense the Bible does not contain the actual words of God, only those reportedly spoken to the various authors of the Bible. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the distinction, being writers yourselves. The Bishop gave them a pained smile. So, if the Dead Sea Scrolls mirror some Bible texts, then, yes, they have some academic validity. Not as the Word of God per se but more as a record of man’s relationship with his creator. To answer your question, I believe the so-called Dead Sea Scrolls are not unimportant."

Doug Moss was tall, dark-haired with piercing blue eyes. Even at fifty-four, he was strong and lean. To people he liked he could be charming and sweet. To the man of God opposite, he perhaps seemed overly aggressive. Good. Doug leaned forward and rephrased the question. Your Grace, do you believe that any of the Gnostic Texts, the Apocrypha as some call them, should be made part of the standard Christian Bible?

The Bishop licked his dry lips before answering. "First of all, you should know that there are already versions of the New Testament that do indeed contain selected Nag Hammadi texts. So frankly your question is moot. More importantly, I have to assume you’re here because I have openly expressed an academic interest in the Dead Sea Scrolls but— The Bishop’s eyes narrowed, I should mention that my interest in the Essenes is purely scholarly. The nervous cleric spoke slowly, choosing his words. Personally I don’t hold with over-sensationalizing the influence of early pagan sects of dubious authority on the birth of Christianity. Doug nodded, as though the man’s every word was fascinating. In truth Doug already knew Edwin Hawksmoor’s views all too well. To my mind, the Essenes were a mere footnote in the progression of serious religious thought, probably more relevant to Greco-Judean cultural history than to modern Anglican academia. The so-called ‘new’ gospels, he smiled as he air-quoted, discovered around the Dead Sea in the 1950s are not always a welcome topic of debate in the modern Catholic church, as I’m sure you have discovered. True, I happen to believe some of the Nag Hammadi texts are of limited ecumenical importance, though my peers are often loathe to agree."

The Bishop’s office was small and ill-lit, surely only a nook in the residential section of the otherwise enormous Wolvesey Palace. Amid the book-lined walls and faded flock wallpaper, the air in the office was dusty and stale, as though the space was under-used. Doug assumed this meant their visit was tolerated rather than welcomed. As a pair of controversial authors, he and Sarah were used to people being wary of them. Doug reckoned they probably had less than five minutes to pursue their questions. He kept his expression pleasant. "Actually, your Grace, we wanted to ask you about a particular batch of Essene writings."

The Bishop, a large man dressed in a dark three-piece suit, looked more like a politician than a cleric. He sighed gently, shifted in his seat. His mouth betrayed a slight sneer, which he tried to cover. Really.

Now Sarah spoke. She and her husband had perfected their double-act over the years. Nice writer, nasty writer. At forty-nine, Sarah was still beautiful. Clairol helped to keep her hair a dark auburn color but her skin was taut and smooth. Her eyes were darker than her husband’s. Hazel, with a hint of emerald. "What do you think of the idea that the Teacher of Righteousness mentioned in the Dead Sea Scrolls is in fact John the Baptist? Or perhaps even Jesus, or his brother, James?"

Quite ridiculous, the Bishop blurted, visibly irritated. The dates would be all wrong for a start. Out by a century or more. Look, if you’re going to research history, you should—

"But the Jesus Gospel is an acknowledged Essene text - it’s even endorsed by the Vatican," Sarah interjected.

Doug then deliberately taunted the Bishop with, "Are you saying The Jesus Gospel is a fake?"

Honestly, how could you suggest such a thing? The Bishop now seemed genuinely alarmed. "Is that the tack you’re taking? That Christ was an Essene? I have to say, I do dislike your sort of books."

Doug bristled while he held the Bishop’s stare. By which you mean?

You know, that Leonardo da Vinci painted the Turin Shroud. The Bishop’s tone was derisive.

Sarah smiled. Not one of ours, I’m afraid.

Or that Jesus and the Magdalene had a sacred child, in France of all places.

"Now that is one we’d like to have written..."

The Bishop was on a roll. Or that Sir Isaac Newton was secretly a Freemason.

Not a secret. He was, Sarah said, frowning.

Was he? I don’t know. Perhaps he was, the Bishop blustered. But look, you know what I mean.

Doug leaned forward. Yes, actually we do. And to be honest I’m surprised you’re so familiar with the alternate history genre.

I like to keep abreast of modern thinking, even when it’s absurd.

Glad to hear that, sir. Look, your Grace, we’re not uneducated people. We certainly don’t want to upset you or even to question the beliefs of the faithful - well, perhaps a few. We’re writers, that’s all. We like to speculate, offer up alternative theories to explain certain historical anomalies. Nothing we do is intended to undermine your authority, Edwin. Doug softened his manner. Basically what we do is write books our publishers tell us people want to read."

Gently, Sarah added, Your Excellency, we came to you because of the books you’ve had published yourself. We like them. We’ve cited them in our manuscript.

Really? Oh dear. I had no idea my work might be used by - your lot.

We can send you an advance copy of our next book if you’d like to peruse it, to perhaps pass comment before it goes to press?

Good Lord, no, please, don’t do that.

An uncomfortable silence pervaded the air. Doug let out a breath and ventured, In the interests—

The Bishop cut in. Look, I don’t mean to be rude - and I know you’ve come a long way - but, really, I have an appointment I can’t miss. He stood, his heavy stomach rising with him. I wish you well with your writing but really, I don’t want to be any part of your research. Could you perhaps find your own way out?

With that, he disappeared through a side door and was gone.

*

The 11th century facade of Winchester Cathedral loomed like a massive tombstone over hallowed ground. Young people huddled in groups on the warm grass in the afternoon sunshine. Older patrons and visitors sat on wooden benches, shaded by tall oaks and elms. Doug and Sarah occupied the stone steps opposite the imposing entranceway, like ordinary middle-aged tourists enjoying the mild weather.

Doug held a guidebook in his large hands. He studied the stained glass window of the Western frontage, a collage of random colored pieces, seemingly patched together without order. Doug pointed to the fresco.

Apparently the Roundheads are responsible for that, he said. Around 1650, during the English Civil War, a bunch of soldiers got totally wasted on confiscated Royalist wine. They smashed the cathedral windows with the sacred bones of the dead saints they found inside.

Sarah chewed on her salmon and cream cheese bagel. Bet that was quite a party.

Locals were horrified, of course. They kept all the glass pieces until the monarchy was re-established. Eighteen years later.

True dedication, Sarah said. Never ceases to amaze me the lengths people will go to hold on to their beliefs. Even when those beliefs are absurd.

Doug snorted his agreement, then frowned at the tall windows. But like Humpty Dumpty, I suppose, they couldn’t put the pieces back together again.

Sarah regarded the ancient monolith with a crooked expression. I like it. It’s different. Original.

Has a kind of ragged appeal, I suppose. You’d think they’d have fixed it by now.

Philistine. It’s become art - because of its uniqueness.

Like you, my sweet, Doug said, and winked.

Sarah ignored the compliment. What did you think of the Bishop?

Stuck up twit. As I predicted.

Sarah nodded. You did, didn’t you?

Honestly, we’re just a pair of humble authors. It’s not like we’re planning to bring down the whole bloody Church.

We’re like the Roundheads, Sarah said, licking her fingers, finishing her lunch. Throwing bones through stained glass windows.

Doug laughed. We didn’t even get to ask him about the Copper Scroll.

"Probably just as well. He’d have a fit if he knew what our book was really about."

*

As the Pathfinder rounded the lane into the Folly Farm campsite, Doug’s heart lurched in dismay. Sarah’s hand found his arm, which she squeezed. Oh my God.

Even from fifty meters away, Doug could see the door to their campervan had been ripped from its housing. Debris covered the earth around their motorhome.

Doug drove their vehicle slowly along the mud track. A late model Volvo had parked beside the caravan. A broken chair, now twisted, perched on the grass. Loose and torn papers fluttered in the breeze, some scattered on the ground, some stamped with bootprints, some scrunched, ripped or balled. 

What’s happened? Sarah asked, almost to herself.

Doug didn’t want to answer the question. Dreaded answering the question. His brow furrowed as he leaped from the vehicle. Stay here! Doug hissed. I’ll find out what’s going on.

Be careful, Sarah called after him, too late for him to hear.

Doug slowed as he neared the camervan’s open doorway. He heard movement within. The splintering of wood, the crash of cutlery. His breathing shortened. Doug leaned a hand against the Coachman’s side and craned his head forward into the broken entrance. Looked left. Two large men dressed in battle fatigues and balaclavas were absorbed in their work. One pulled open drawers and cabinets, the other cleared the contents of cupboards noisily, with a complete disregard for their belongings.

As Sarah came out to investigate, the Pathfinder's door slammed and the men caught the sound. They turned their heads and their slitted eyes glared at Doug. Colt semi-automatic rifles appeared in their hands like magic, their barrels trained on his face. Doug held up his hands in surrender, a reflex rather than a sign of submission.

One the men paced quickly toward Doug, ignoring the crunch of debris beneath his feet. Where’s the fucking manuscript? His voice was gruff, impatient, with an accent. Perhaps Dutch. More likely Afrikaan. Before Doug could back away, before he could even think, the man grabbed his shirt and pulled him inside the caravan. Despite his weight, Doug’s feet left the ground. His shins cracked against the Coachman’s steps.

Sarah’s hands pawed at his back and legs. She called out his name with alarm.

Here, Boss, the other man, an American, shouted. Think I’ve found it! He held up a thick sheaf of papers in a manila folder. Without hesitation, the first man opened fire.

Over a dozen bullets quickly found their mark. Doug’s upper body ruptured as blood exploded in a cloud of crimson. Sarah’s scream caught in her throat as a second hail of bullets ripped mercilessly through her throat and face. Their bodies slumped and lay silent while the men listened for possible witnesses. Time passed, they realized they were safe and their targets annihilated. Plus, they’d found what they’d been sent to retrieve. 

Over the next twenty minutes, the men took their time. They gathered up the papers they wanted and placed them neatly in plastic bags and into the trunk of their station wagon. Soon after, they hauled the bodies of the two dead writers onto the floor of the Coachman. The Afrikaan found the gas pipe beneath the sink and unscrewed the feed line from the cooker. The smell of sulfur was soon acrid and unbearable. When they were done, the men got into their vehicle and drove a safe distance away.

The American in the passenger seat turned and aimed his Colt 6920 out of the car window. He fired a volley of shots at the Coachman. A second later, the motorhome erupted. A bright blue and yellow explosion ruffled the grass and trees as the blast expanded. Moments later the Coachman was a mess of fire and black smoke.

The killers drove away, unseen by anyone but the birds and the bees.

Chapter Three

Dusk. Itamar Leibnitz enjoyed this time of day, when the bustle of students thinned as the light on the university campus dwindled.

Itamar was old by Harvard professor standards. He was also way past retirement age in any normal occupation. No matter, he enjoyed teaching. He liked the idea of transferring knowledge to the young people who thronged to his lectures on Judea-Hellenistic history. He found comfort, too, in this sprawling American institution, especially after the hard work he’d been subjected to as Dean at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. After the pressure there, he loved the peaceful solitude here, in his private study on the second floor of Sever Hall, in particular after six o' clock, when the Grossman Library closed and silence gently caressed the hallowed halls and corridors of learning.

Leibnitz stood at his office window. He was almost seventy and had developed a stoop in recent years, something he did not care for. His mustard complexion was deeply lined with a concentration of crows feet around the eyes, displaying his sense of humor. His hair, though a steely gray was full and unruly. He looked out across the grassy quadrangle of Harvard Yard and let loose a sigh of contentment. The sky was pale blue, turning to a soft slate. Yes, Cambridge Massachusetts was quiet and peaceful, unlike the war-torn Middle East where bullets and explosions and death were so prevalent. Here, on the green concourse below, the tall black oaks and American elm trees were in full bloom. A lone gardener wandered among them, idly spiking leaves and litter, depositing his haul in a large brown sack thrown over his shoulder.

The professor closed the vertical blinds and went back to his workstation. He should go home, he decided. Much as he'd have preferred to sit there all evening, studying, soaking up the ancient past, the janitors would soon be making their rounds. He felt self-conscious when they arrived, as if he'd somehow overstayed his welcome at a party. His wife would be missing him too. She said she was used to his long hours, but perhaps he should get back, to spend time with her. It wasn't too late for a glass of port over dinner on the balcony of their River Street apartment.

One more look at the inscription. Couldn't hurt. Just one.

He hit the space bar on the keyboard and the screen came back to life. On it was a close-up of etched red copper, tool marks so enlarged as to be unrecognizable to anyone unskilled in epigraphy. The professor frowned. Was that an oblique left-facing accent? Or merely an accidental slip made by the two thousand year old etcher? The difference was crucial. If the scratch was made in error, the hieroglyph meant nothing. But, if the marking was deliberate, it denoted something incredible, too fantastic to be taken seriously...

He took off his glasses, placed them on the desk and rubbed his eyes. Was it his imagination or had the print in front of him wavered - just a little? He brought his hand up to the screen.