THE GILGAMESH PROJECT BOOK II LA ISLA BONITA JOHN FRANCIS KINSELLA
CONTENTS PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 APOLOGIES ACKNOWLEDGMENTS BOOKS BY AUTHOR BOOK III
Copyright © John Francis Kinsella 2020 all rights reserved Published by Banksterbooks Cover & contents designed by Banksterbooks This is an authorised free edition from www.obooko.com Although you do not have to pay for this book, the author’s intellectual property rights remain fully protected by international Copyright laws. You are licensed to use this digital copy strictly for your personal enjoyment only. This edition must not be hosted or redistributed on other websites without the author’s written permission nor offered for sale in any form. If you paid for this book, or to gain access to it, we suggest you demand a refund and report the transaction to the author and Obooko. [email protected] 101120201400
for Tilla, Selma, Eléonore, Noé, Xaver, Elyas, Adèle, Camille and Antoine
I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. Woody Allen
In the empty field, in the morning, the body waits to be claimed. The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock-- nothing comes to give it form again. Think of the body's loneliness. At night pacing the sheared field, its shadow buckled tightly around. Such a long journey. And already the remote, trembling lights of the village not pausing for it as they scan the rows. How far away they seem, the wooden doors, the bread and milk laid like weights on the table. by Louise Gluck
PROLOGUE SIMMONDS, A SMALL-TIME LAWYER IN BELIZE, is the executor of the estate of one George Wallace. In the course of his work Simmo, as his friends call him, discovers a rare and valuable Aztec codex hidden in a safe deposit box in a Panamanian bank by the deceased. Realising the potential value of the codex he takes off for San Sebastian in Spain in the hope of finding a buyer, namely Sir Patrick Kennedy, a rich banker and collector of art and antiquities. Simmonds makes an agreement against an initial payment of one million dollars whilst waiting for authentication tests. In the meantime he returns to Belize, where not long after he disappears. The hard pressed police department manifested little interest as there was no indication of foul play, besides disappearances were not unusual in that small Caribbean country where crime, tropical swamps and shark infested waters abounded. Igor Vishnevsky, a business associate of Simmonds did not disappear. On the contrary his body, identified by a hotel room card found in a back pocket, turned up floating near the beach at the Coral Cove Resort on Ambergris Caye, according to the autopsy it had been exsanguinated— drained of all its blood. All that was left of the Russian’s legs were a few shreds of flesh and shattered bone, a shark attack, concluded the police report, which didn’t explain the life jacket and what was left of a nylon rope knotted to it. The Russian was suspected as having been part of a conduit that managed investments for highly placed Russian officials, buying and selling property,
and channeling the profits to a Cayman Islands holding company that invested them in UK prime property. Vishnevsky, according to the Mexican police, was resident in Cancun, where he had arrived some eighteen months earlier, travelling on a Cypriot ‘golden’ passport, which accorded the holder the right to live, work and travel freely in all countries of the EU as well as travel visa free to 176 other countries, including most countries of the Caribbean and South America. The cost of such a passport set back the holder two million euros, in the form of an investment in Cypriot business or real estate. Vishnevsky was one of several thousand non-EU citizens who had bought a Cypriot passport under the scheme, mainly Russians, but also Ukrainians, Chinese and Middle Easterners, all of whom had one thing in common— their wealth. Vishnevsky’s mistake was to encourage top Russian government officials to invest in the luxury condominium and golf complex on Ambergris Caye, in reality a peninsula—near to the border with the Mexican Yucatan, which led to questions being raised by the opposition, led by Alexei Navalny, as to how they, not so richly paid officials, could invest large sums of money in such valuable assets. The Russian was liquidated after the collapse of his real estate deals which threatened to expose Oleg Sedov—a member of the Russian state security apparatus, and VTB—known in banking and diplomatic circles as the Kremlin's bank, as being implicated in money laundering and the illegal transfer of funds via Cyprus and Belize, which Western intelligence agencies suspected were being channeled into subversive operations carried out by the FSB, SVR or GRU—operations that ranged across the geopolitical board—from London to Caracas, creating an embarrassing scandal at a moment when opposition to Putin was on the rise.
As the American presidential elections approached and Brexit negotiations reached a critical point, the sudden death of Vishnevsky, known for his activities in intelligence circles, could attract unwanted attention as cyber operations intensified to discredit Biden by linking him to his son’s shady business dealings in the Ukraine. Wallace, through Demitriev, then Vishnevsky, had discovered an endless source of what seemed like easy money, which he moved through a complex web of companies and bank accounts, a system that little by little escaped the control of Vishnevsky, who was busy leading the high life in Cancun, entertaining a flow of highly placed Russian officials discovering the Yucatan’s rich and exotic pleasures—beaches, golf, cruises, parties and the wonders of the Mayan civilisation. Wallace had persuaded the Russian everything was in order, it was the way things were done locally, he explained. And it was, business boomed, the tourist industry knew no limits, investors fought to buy land and build tourist resorts. Who could have imagined the pandemic, a scenario from a Stephen King novel, the streets of Cancun were deserted, the usually packed shopping centres fell silent, the beaches emptied, and the Ambergris development in nearby Belize went belly-up. Wallace’s had not only invested the Russian’s money in local real estate, but also in Cancun, the Dominican Republic and Jamaica, all of which were enmeshed in local corruption as cash flowed freely, driving up land prices with buyers fighting over sites as greedy politicians scrambled to get their snouts in the trough. Dirty money was laundered as funds were shunted between accounts owned by obscure shell companies registered in Belize, Panama, the British Virgin Islands, Cyprus and other offshore tax haven, all of which enabled
corrupt politicians and businessmen to hide massive sums of money from their governments. Wallace, thanks to the companies Simmo set-up, had built a well-oiled investment scheme on behalf of Vishnevsky’s Russian friends with companies registered in offshore jurisdictions that ploughed cash into real estate developments he targeted. In that way the money was not only laundered, it avoided taxation and shrouded the identities of the ultimate beneficiaries behind an opaque screen. The trouble was Vishnevsky had become careless, too trusting, but above all, he like everyone else could have never imagined a pandemic, it was not in his or even the FSB’s gamebook. Simmo had turned a blind eye to the true nature of Wallace’s business and as a result paid the price. In a way he had been luckier than the hapless Igor Vishnevsky, who had ended up as shark bait, towed behind an outboard off the Belize Barrier Reef, the waves sown with bloodied pigs guts, guaranteed to attract the Bull Sharks lurking off the reef. Though the Belize police did not go into details, it was technique known to them, a punishment for cheats and double-dealers, invented by the pirates and drug runners that plagued the frontier zone between Belize and the Mexican state of Quintana Roo. ‘Can’t blame them,’ confided the Police Commissioner when he reported the Russian’s death to the Chief Justice, ‘Vishnevsky must have tasted as rotten as his reputation … those sharks usually leave nothing.’
CHAPTER 1 ARKADY DEMITRIEV DECIDED HE NEEDED to join the dots. There was something he was missing. Simmonds’ presence in San Sebastian was totally out of character with the mundane life he had lived up to that point in time, that is apart from his adventure into local real estate, when he had gambled all on a throw of the dice. Simmonds, a small-time lawyer in Belize City, had never, at least as far as what Demitriev knew of him, travelled much outside of the Caribbean area, and only when his clients’ business needs demanded it, which was relatively rare. Simmonds’ law firm handled business matters as well as property conveyance, wills and probate, mostly for expatriates. In more recent times his business services had grown as the demand for offshore shell companies and bank accounts increased, these were generally one shot affairs, for which he charged his overseas clients around one thousand dollars and upwards. It was like that he became involved with Wallace, an English expat like himself, who provided him with a regular flow of clients, Russians and the like, who needed his legal services to hide their money in offshore tax havens. Russia had no diplomatic representation in Belize, its affairs were handled by the Mexican Embassy, and Arkady Demitriev, a counselor for economic affairs based in Mexico City and consular affairs in Cancun. Demitriev, like certain other embassy staff, was a member of the Russian state security services, as a GRU agent his role was to manage certain of Moscow’s covert interests in the Caribbean region including business
transactions to circumvent US sanctions imposed on Venezuela as well as operations in British and former British territories. Demitriev handled George Wallace, a longtime fellow traveller living in Belize, and had introduced him to Igor Vishnevsky, a former banker with VTB, a state owned bank in Moscow, who had set himself up in Cancun. Vishnevsky had involved high-up Russian government officials in real estate investments set up by Wallace with the help of Simmonds which had gone sour with the Covid pandemic. They had been compromised and wanted their money back. Unfortunately for Demitriev, Wallace and Simmonds had been eliminated by his bungling helpers, leaving him to solve the problem or suffer the consequences. Unraveling Simmonds last moves had been complicated by an unusually brief visit to Panama City and his inexplicably sudden departure to Madrid. What had he been hiding? That question led to Simmonds’ death when Demitriev's heavy handed thugs unintentionally ran him off the road into a jungle swamp in the south of Belize City near the border with Guatemala.
CHAPTER 2 AFTER LEAVING ANNA BASURKO IN GENEVA, Pat Kennedy headed back to London. During the flight he thought about Simmonds’ manuscript and its possible link to the fabulous Florentine Codex held in the Laurentian Library in Florence, Italy. Had they been written by the same persons under Bernadino’s supervision or had another Franciscan friar been involved? On arrival in London he headed directly for the Gould Tower where Liam Clancy was waiting for him. They had a number of serious questions linked to the situation in Hong Kong and the risks related to the newly voted laws which posed problems for the future relations between the UK, Hong Kong and China. Pat’s concern had been accentuated by China's latest demonstration of force, following the suspension of the IPO planned by the billionaire Jack Ma’s for Ant Group, an online payment service, an extension of his business empire, when the Communist Party once again reminded all private entrepreneurs that no matter how rich and successful they were it could, at any time, pull the rug out from under their feet. That evening something about Anna Basurko’s story told of the codex's author, Bernardino de Sahagun, continued to dog him, it was his longevity, she had remarked that he and the other Franciscan friars close to him, had lived long lives, a strange coincidence for that time when life was short and many Spaniards, recently arrived in New Spain, died young, from illness and disease.
He made a mental note to speak with Michel Morel and Henri Ducros at LifeGen, maybe there was something worth following up once Anna had completed the translation. LifeGen, situated in the South of France, was headed by Michel Morel and Henri Ducros, the former a geneticist specialised in cell research, the latter a botanist whose domain was plant biology and pharmacology. Founded by Pat Kennedy, LifeGen’s goal was not simply to slow aging, but to reverse the aging process. Its research into life extension was concentrated on various cellular mechanisms that regulated ageing, and how to control them. Pat spoke with Michel Morel about Anna’s difficulty to identify plants in Simmonds’ manuscript, which he now referred to as the Wallace Codex. Morel explained that whilst they carried out research on plants they did not have an in-house botanical expert. However, in nearby Grasse, the world centre of perfumery, they worked closely with a botanist named Luis Gutierrez. ‘He’s an American by the way, Southern California, speaks Spanish and French,’ Morel told Pat. ‘Luis works closely with the perfume industry, you know a lot of their essences come from plants. He travels all over the world in search of new specimens.’ ‘Great, he can help us?’ ‘Yes Pat, I’ve also spoken with Anna, so I’ve taken the liberty to inform Luis you’ll be coming down. He’s suggested we meet for dinner, he lives in Juan-les-Pins that’s about fifteen minutes from her hotel in Cannes.’ ‘That would be great.’ *
Gutierrez was a tallish man in his late sixties, he looked very noble, with his short beard and very fit, in fact every bit like what a Conquistador would have looked like, thought Pat. His family originally came from Seville in Andalusia in the 17th century, first to Mexico, then after the MexicanAmerican War, which saw the annexation by the United States of a vast territory that englobed what would become the future states of Texas, California, Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Washington, and Oregon—the family moved to California. Gutierrez grew up in Sacramento and studied botany and plant physiology at the Faculty of Biological & Biomedical Sciences at Humboldt State University in Arcata before specialising in desert flora and ecosystems. He ran a successful business, Phytotech, in Grasse, not far from Nice, supplying the perfume industry with essences extracted from desert plants used by many major cosmetic firms in their products. His essences were imported into France from the US and Mexico, like those of many other suppliers and from a wide range of ecosystems. The collection of plants at his botanical gardens and greenhouses near Palm Springs in California included thousands of specimens native to the deserts that covered a huge geographical region, which stretched from Nevada to the Gulf of Mexico, to New Mexico, Chihuahua and Durango, a vast hot dry biosphere covering more than 500,000 k/m2 of deserts. * They arrived at Chez Vincent a smart beachside restaurant where Luis was waiting for them. Michel did the presentations and they were shown to their table.
‘It’s a beautiful evening so I thought it would be nice to eat outside,’ said Luis, gallantly inviting Anna to a seat overlooking the sea. They ordered drinks and after the small talk Anna described her project, vaguely explaining it was linked to an historical research programme, carefully avoiding the story behind the Wallace Codex. ‘As you know Anna, I’m a botanist, specialised, generally speaking in desert flora in a biosphere that includes a large part of Mexico. But Mexico is a big country, one of the most biological varied on the planet, from deserts to jungles, alpine to coastal biosystems, and something between 5,000–7,000 plant species.’ Anna was surprised, she hadn’t counted more than a couple of hundred or so illustrations in the codex. She opened her handbag and pulled out a couple of folded colour photocopies. ‘This is what I’m working on,’ she said smoothing them out on the tablecloth. ‘Ah, Solanum lycopersicum,’ said Antonio picking one up, ‘what we commonly know as the tomato plant, a species that originated in western South and Central America, in fact as you can see in this transliteration of the Nahuatl word tomatl into tomate in Spanish and tomato in English. ‘Nahua...?’ asked Pat. ‘Nahuatl, that’s the Aztec language, which was written in hieroglyphs,’ he said pointing to the second column. ‘Yes, I get you.’ ‘Now there are dozens of plants related to the tomato, for example Atropa belladonna, commonly known as belladonna, or deadly nightshade, which
has been used since antiquity as a poison,’ he said with a frown. ‘It was known in ancient Rome, where the Empress Livia Drusilla poisoned her husband, the Emperor Augustus with a concoction made from the juice of the berries.’ Luis picked one up another sheet. ‘Ah, Sahagun if I’m not mistaken.’ Anna nodded. ‘Let me see, Spanish and Nahuatl,’ he said examining the texts. ‘Yes, 16th century Spanish.’ ‘And Nahuatl.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, Nahuatl is still spoken today, in parts of the Federal District—that’s Mexico City, Durango and other states. I worked a long time in those regions when I was younger, collecting plants, and was fairly fluent in Nahuatl. What they call classical Nahuatl was spoken in Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital,’ he added for Michel Morel's benefit. ‘There were and still are many dialects.’ ‘So you can understand it.’ ‘Some of it, that's the romanised version, developed by the Spanish Franciscans at that time. It’s changed a lot, but I get the gist of it.’ ‘Fantastic. I’m having it translated by a couple of linguists so your knowledge of the plants would help.’ He smiled indicating his agreement. ‘Would it be difficult to identify the plants and their usage?’
‘In theory no, unless of course there are plants we don’t know.’ ‘By the way, I don’t know if Michel has told you, but all this is very confidential.’ ‘Don’t worry, in my business we’re used to trade secrets.’ ‘We’re interested in certain plants, part of our research programme in gerontology, related to developing anti-ageing drugs, a promising market,’ explained Michel. ‘So do you think you can help us Luis?’ asked Anna. ‘No problem, Michel has told me Sir Patrick would like to us to treat this as priority, so I’ll get one of my research assistants on it tomorrow. Angela, she’s also Californian and speaks Spanish. Her family originally came from Spain, Galicia, La Coruña I believe.’ ‘Ah, a Celt,’ Anna said with a smile. They laughed. ‘How long will it take?’ ‘A couple of weeks should do it.’ ‘Great.’ ‘Do you know very much about California?’ ‘Yes, I’ve been there a few times, the last time was about a year ago with my friend Pat O'Connelly. Research work. Pat has a place in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.'
‘Well let me know the next time you’re there and I’ll have you visit our botanical gardens in Palm Springs, we have a huge collection of desert plants and trees.’ That sounded like a good idea to Anna and she made a note to speak with ‘Dee’, as she called Pat O'Connelly. ‘Michel tells me you’re here for a few days, so we’ve set up a meeting with Angela tomorrow morning, if that suits you.’ ‘Perfecto.’ ‘Can you leave me these photocopies.’ ‘No problem.’ * The next morning Michel drove her to Grasse, where Luis was waiting with Angela. His laboratory was a research and production centre where essential oils were extracted from plants for blending and trials. In addition work was carried out for the identification of new molecules that could have cosmetic or medical applications. After introductions they set off for a tour of the facilities whilst Luis gave a running commentary on their work. ‘We carry out phytochemical studies on the kinds of medicinal and aromatic desert plants known and as yet unused. Generally speaking, to start with we use simple extraction methods, maceration and hydrodistillation, using solvents like hexane, methanol, dichloromethane, acetone, petroleum ether, ethanol, and water.
‘We also use new methods such as supercritical CO2 whenever we discover new molecules in small quantities,’ he said pointing to a mass of stainless steel tubes and pumps behind a glass screen. ‘Once plants are identified as being of interest we have them collected by local peoples or buy them in markets such as the Mercado de Sonora in the centre of Mexico City, very famous with a long tradition for herbal medicines. They not only sell dry and fresh plants, but also animal parts like dried rattle snake, skunk and starfish.’ They listened attentively discovering a fascinating new world of plant chemistry of which they knew almost nothing. ‘Today the pharmaceutical industry, is very interested in the traditional medicinal plants of indigenous peoples almost everywhere for the active ingredients that can be used in modern medicines.’ They arrived back in the reception area and Luis pointing the way to the office area invited them into a conference room. ‘Here we can discuss the work with Angela,’ he said inviting them to be seated around a large table. ‘Let’s start with your photocopies Anna. As you told me you are translating a work which is represented here by these images,’ Luis said examining the copies Anna had given them. ‘If the rest is of the same style then I would describe it as a botanical encyclopedia, the equivalent of an herbarium, that is to say collections of preserved plants and their scientific descriptions.’ They listened attentively.
‘It’s a very old human science you know, one that goes back to Theophrastus’s Enquiry into Plants or Historia Plantarum, which dates from 350BC and describes 500 species of plants and their use. ‘As a matter of fact the largest herbarium in the world is here in France, at the Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle, in Paris. ‘The people who made this herbarium,’ he said referring to the copies, ‘probably collected and preserved plant samples which they used for the illustrations and descriptions. ‘We have our own data base of desert plants, a complete description of all known plants in our biosphere, which by the way we update constantly as new plants are discovered.’ Pat seemed surprised. ‘Yes, we discover new plants all the time.’ ‘We can check most plants from an image in a few seconds, of course it takes an expert to differentiate between lookalikes,’ he said smiling at Angela. ‘The biggest database in the world is The Plant List,’ Luis told them. ‘It covers over one million species, and amongst other things it sorts out a century-old taxonomic jumble where non-standard names were a constant source of confusion, often provoking rivalry and disputes in specialised and non-specialised botanical circles.’ ‘Where is this?’ asked Pat. ‘Well, it’s the work of two organisations, the British Royal Botanic Gardens and the Missouri Botanical Garden.’ ‘So every plant is described in this database,’ Pat enquired.
‘No … in spite of this extraordinary work, there is still a large number of trees and plants that are non identified and not described. ‘In total, there are as I speak, 1,064,035 scientific plant names, of which 350,699 are species names, made up of 642 plant families and 17,020 plant genera.’ Pat whistled. ‘I see that leaves lots of room for confusion.’ ‘Unfortunately yes,’ Luis said with a reluctant smile. ‘But the positive thing is we still have much to discover, new molecules, new cures, and many other things. Nature is very bountiful.’ They all nodded in agreement. ‘Perhaps we can make a demonstration with the plants shown on these two papers,’ he said picking the photocopies and looking questioningly at Angela. * Pat Kennedy was not only concerned about his own health, he seriously believed the world was heading for disaster, collapse, which was perhaps not imminent, but near, very near, all the signs were there—climate change, runaway demographics, pollution, disease, political confrontation on both national and international fronts with wars and strife. The pandemic confirmed his vision as politicians seized the power of state to enforce their half-baked ideas. To gag voices so soon after they had been freed by internet. The flames of fear were stoked by leaders in search of authoritarian power, promising protection from the virus and conspirationists. It reminded his friend John Francis, an eminent economist, of Lenin who had once said politics is about who will overtake whom. John was no communist, far from it, but he didn't buy the kind of simplistic ideas
preached by economists like Yanis Varoufakis, who like so many others sought to impose his own radical version of the truth. The facts were there, humanity was an uncontrollable monster, a species unwilling to share its gains, a wild beast without a soul, ready to devour its fellow creatures, without the least sign of mercy. Humanity reminded him of the shrill hard eyed hawks pouncing on their unsuspecting prey, the kind he had watched as a boy on the wind swept hills of Connemara, tearing them apart with their hooked beaks without a tear in their heartless eyes.
CHAPTER 3 PAT FELT IT WAS PART OF HIS DUTY to his family, friends and associates to set about developing a survival plan, but when he stopped to think, he realised that if he lived to the age of his grandfather, he had at the most 30 or so years of life ahead of him, half of what he had already lived. Most mortal men would have been satisfied with that, but not Pat. What would all his wealth be worth to him if he was dead, as he surely would be if nature ran its unforgiving course? He remembered his visit to Xi’an, the capital of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of a united China, who with his vast wealth and power had built a tomb guarded by the now famous life-sized Terracotta Army, a city from which he planned to rule in the afterlife. In the meantime, to forestall the risk that the afterlife was just a dream, Qin sought the elixir of eternal life, a concoction invented by his wise men, mercury pills, which unfortunately for him only hastened the end of his mortal existence. Immortality was an age old dream, but in 2020 there was a glimmer of hope and certain scientists thought the key to longevity lay in the genes that controlled our biological clock. Though brought up a Catholic in Ireland, Pat was not a believer, superstitious, but definitely not a believer, as for Chinese elixirs he had about as much faith in them as in the holy water his mother brought home from Lourdes. But he did believe in science, and the progress medical science had made during his life time was remarkable by any measure.
Pat had everything a man could want, he was a citizen of the world, he had power and wealth, he had a family—an elegant Chinese wife and two beautiful children, he owned homes in Hong Kong, London, Paris, New York and the Caribbean, he was the owner of a mega-yacht and a transcontinental jet or two, and above all robust health, but now as he approached the age of 60, and his good health seemed less certain, the thought of his own mortality cast a sombre shadow on his otherwise extraordinary rise to success—one day in the not very distant future he would die. He with Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg, had two things in common—they were immensely rich … and they would die. What was the point of being rich, or surviving the disasters that were taking shape of the horizons, if he was to die of age and decrepitude like the many nameless down and outs he saw sleeping in the doorways on the streets of London. What was the point of saving the planet, restoring it to its once pristine state, if he was not there to enjoy it? Was death inevitable when he controlled such vast wealth? The two things went together, survival and longevity, longevity and survival, in the kind of conditions that permitted him to enjoy life with the trappings of wealth and far from danger. Through his bank, INI Hong Kong, he was the majority shareholder in LifeGen, a biological research institute based in Sophia Antipolis, a science and technology park that lay in the South of France, between Nice and Cannes. LifeGen’s principal field of research was molecular biology and genetics and more precisely research into the biological clock, the mechanism that controlled the ageing process in the human body.
Understanding the underlying cause of ageing was essential if the clock was to be reset, reversed, restoring characteristics of youth to aged cells and tissues. Pat was told two factors influenced the ageing process—epigenetics and genetics, and defining their functioning was essential if they were to be opened to reprogramming. The idea that those who persons who would live to two hundred or more had already been born, convinced Pat to invest, like Alphabet’s life-science company, Verily, formerly Google Life Sciences, in life extending research. LifeGen’s goal was to slow and even reverse the aging process, through technology, big data, genomics and by applied regenerative medicine to replace or regenerate human cells, tissues and organs. Life extension research was a field that governments and intellectuals disapproved, that was understandable, philosophers had spent 2,500 years explaining and justifying death, religions had invested big in their afterlife beliefs, as for pension funds long life was anathema. Pat had sufficient proof that life could be extended through techniques to rejuvenate the human body by increasing science’s understanding of the biology that regulated the duration of life, his ambition was to control it by the development of new technologies. It was a serious advantage to commence life with a good set of genes, which he believed he had, and to be far from the horribly polluted environment of Hong Kong and China, far away, perhaps in Ireland, or on the Altiplano of Colombia, which was of course in the realms of the possible. He was the captain of INI, a leading multinational investment bank and financial services institution, headquartered in Hong Kong, a well-oiled machine, providing services to countless clients—for the most part businesses, caring for the wealth of their owners and shareholders,
privileged high worth individuals through the group's private banking arm, investing in the future through a network of branches spread across Asia, Europe and the Americas.
CHAPTER 4 PAT KENNEDY UNKNOWN TO HIS FRIENDS had contracted Covid19, the symptoms had been mild and he had self-quarantined in his vast London home, on Cheney Walk, where he could enjoy the garden during the fine weather that had coincided with the pandemic in London. A month later after feeling slightly breathless with a vague sense of fatigue he had consulted Robert McGoldrick, a close friend and an eminent neurologist at London University Hospital. Robert arranged a visit to a specialist at UCLPartners, who had Pat undergo a general check-up plus a lung and brain scan. The result was not great, more tests were needed, McGoldrick putting on a professional face told him not to worry and suggested he take some rest, lightheartedly recommending Nice where he could visit LifeGen. Pat wondered what that meant, he’d never suffered health problems and rarely visited doctors except to fulfill the annual obligation to his bank that required the CEO and other senior officers undergo a health check. He was well built, six foot, and played racket sports regularly, he didn't smoke or drink, apart from a very occasional glass of wine at a dinner or a function. At first Pat shrugged it off, but as the idea that he was perhaps not in perfect health sunk in—with all that that implied, he began to realise there existed a possibility he would never see his long term plans develop, even worse was the thought that perhaps he would not see his two young children grow up. It was like a slow motion crash. Fate had played him a bad hand, with all his wealth he came to the realisation he would suffer the same fate as that of
millions of ordinary people, the vast majority of whom could never—even in their wildest dreams, have imagined the kind of wealth and power he possessed. Pat didn’t need to ask his friend to keep the news confidential. At the same time he decided, for the moment, not to tell his wife Lili, who was already concerned about her family in China. Instead he suggested they with the children take a break at their villa at Beaulieu-sur-Mer, just outside of Nice where he could, as McGoldrick suggested, catch up on the news at LifeGen. Pat, who behind his business façade was a romantic, had always held a special feeling for Provence and the Côte d'Azur, a region he had discovered as a young newly wed when he stayed in nearby Eze with his first wife. There was the beauty of the setting, seafront gardens filled with brightly coloured flowers, graceful trees and palms. Many years later as a guest at the Villa Contessina, Pat was enchanted by its fine 19th century Italian architecture and classical style. It lay on a hill surrounded by typically Mediterranean gardens with tall cypresses, pines, gnarled magnolias, violet bougainvillea and citrus trees sagging with ripe fruit. From the pool terrace the Beaulieu marina could be seen below, to the right was Cap-Saint-Jean-Ferrat. The villa’s beauty and tranquility reminded Pat of Scott Fitzgerald’s description in his novel Tender is the Night: ‘They dined at the new Beach Casino at Monte Carlo… much later they swam in Beaulieu in a roofless cavern of white moonlight formed by a circlet of pale boulders about a cup of phosphorescent water, facing Monaco and the blur of Menton.’
Besides Beaulieu’s Belle Époque Mediterranean setting and the fact it had somehow escaped the excesses of modern development, there was the practical aspect, it lay just 10 kilometres from Nice’s international airport and 30 kilometres from Sophia Antipolis where Pat had set up the LifeGen facility. Sir Patrick was keeping a low public profile far from the diplomatic storm that was raging between London and Beijing over Hong Kong, the last thing he wanted was to be trapped by journalists into some offhand statement that would damage his business concerns in the two countries. He was caught in a balancing act which could be very costly to his bank if he wrong-footed political sensitivities. The accumulation of the Covid-19 pandemic, his own health concerns and Hong Kong had caught him in the unawares. That morning as his butler, George Melley, served breakfast on the terrace of Villa Contessina, he couldn’t help observing Sir Patrick was preoccupied, his usual almost carefree humour was absent. ‘Tell Jean-Paul to get the car ready, I’ll be going to LifeGen after breakfast.’ ‘Yes Sir Patrick,’ George replied. He not only played the role of a perfect butler, he enjoyed it. ‘I won’t be back for lunch.’ ‘When can we expect Madame?’ ‘She’ll be arriving with the children tomorrow, early afternoon, you can check the flight and get Jean-Paul to pick them up.’
Pat checked the news on his tablet, noting Huawei was in the headlines as London moved to block the telecom giant from participating in the new G5 project. He turned his attention to the view, he needed to get his mind off business. London was now in the hands of Liam Clancy and Angus was looking after Hong Hong. There was also a report from Henrique da Souza in Brazil, and an update on his project in Colombia from Tom Barton, he’d look at them later. As he was driven over to Sophia Antipolis he read the latest report on a compound called NDGA. The name rang a bell. Hadn’t Anna Basurko told him of a sacred Aztec drink made from the leaves of a tree?' It was mid-morning when he arrived at the LifeGen site in Sophia Antipolis, a few kilometres to the north of Nice, where he was met by Michel Morel and Henri Ducros who took him on a tour of the laboratories and the latest installations. It looked good, but to Pat a laboratory was a laboratory, the world of microorganisms and compounds was invisible to the casual visitor and beyond his comprehension. What he could do, however, was provide the help LifeGen needed and he asked what he could do to progress their research. Michel expressed his concern that LifeGen’s work was hampered by the need of a vital tool, one which would require an investment of at least 25 million dollars, plus an extremely powerful computer to analysis the results of its work. The trouble was not the money, Pat Kennedy could afford that. It was the availability of such a tool and training a team to operate such a highly sophisticated installation.
Weighing two tons and four metres high, such microscopes could produce 3-D images of molecules and atoms for research purposes, a tool that would enormously facilitate and accelerate their research into the ageing of human cells. Pat understood and perhaps he had a solution. * The next day, Pat called his friend Pierre Ros and invited him to lunch. Pierre was head of the Faculty of Science at the St Charles Campus of AixMarseille University, which had successfully undertaken a scientific investigation to authenticate works of art in the Sommières Collection for Pat Kennedy some three years earlier. Now Pat needed his help again. Pierre was a fine gourmet and though Marseille was full of excellent restaurants, there was none better than that aboard Pat’s yacht, Las Indias, anchored for the summer season off Cassis, a few kilometres to the east of the city. It was an invitation Pierre couldn’t refuse, it was not everyday he was invited aboard such a yacht. With its 90 metres it was amongst the world’s top 50 yachts, a floating palace, though Pat had transformed it to something that resembled a research vessel, much better in the eyes of ecologists like Kyril Kyristoforos, another of Pat's friends. The weather was perfect when Pierre arrived in the small fishing town set in a bay between Cap Canaille and Port Miou. Pat met him as he stepped out of his car on Quai des Baux and together they exchanged news as they strolled past the pastel-colored buildings, sidewalk cafes and restaurants towards the quayside.
He pointed Pierre towards the cutter that was waiting for them. A few moments later they were heading out into the bay where Las Indias was anchored. After climbing the gangway to the lower deck, Pat's captain, Steve Bogart, who went by the name ‘Humph’ to his friends, stood waiting to greet them with a naval salute and a friendly smile. Humph, a Westcountryman, had been captain of Las Indias since Pat Kennedy had acquired her some three years earlier. They shook hands warmly, ignoring the Covid precautions, with Pat assuring Pierre all was disinfected and everybody tested. They took the lift to the upper forward deck where they had a magnificent view of the small fishing port overlooked by its centuries-old château and the coastline marked by its calanques, narrow inlets framed by steep limestone cliffs and beyond Cap Canaille, a rocky headland. As they were served chilled Champagne, Pat, almost whispering, announced, ‘What I’m looking for Pierre, is help in molecular bioscience.’ Pierre looked at Pat strangely wondering what he was now getting into. He had worked closely with Pat on the Sommières Collection and had helped him out on his other projects, each of which was as remarkable as the other. ‘I have read you’ve have a new electron microscope in Marseilles.’ ‘That’s right, last year we installed a Cryo-Electron Microscope in our Biomedical Research Institute at Montpellier University. Steve Swartz, he’s director of the institute, a good friend, from New Orleans by the way, lived in France for most of his life, specialised in cellular research.’ ‘What's he working on?’
‘Worms,’ said Pierre, bursting out into laughter, before he saw Pat’s puzzlement. ‘I’m not kidding worms.’ ‘Worms.’ ‘Yes, a small transparent roundworm called Caenorhabditis elegans, they live in gardens and compost heaps. Only one millimetre long.’ ‘What does that have to do with LifeGen?’ ‘A lot, let me explain. Steve is investigating the reasons why cells suddenly begin to decline when animals reach reproductive maturity. It seems that the ageing process turns off the stress responses that protect the cell. It’s like a switch that’s thrown in early adulthood, after the animal starts to reproduce, that is when reproduction ensures the continuity of its line.’ ‘I see, so how does this affect, humans?’ ‘Well, this genetic switch that play a role in the aging process is common in all animals, including us, and Caenorhabditis elegans has a biochemical environment similar to ours.’ Pat raised his head looking at the extraordinary landscape beyond the deck of his yacht. ‘Not mine,’ he announced grinning broadly. ‘Steve’s team is working on this switch and how to control it,’ replied Pierre dismissing Pat’s humour. ‘You see the aging process consists of a whole swath of degenerative diseases related to cellular stress and the person who discovers any means of preventing cellular stress will make a fortune.’ Pat said nothing.
‘So how’s LifeGen doing?’ ‘Well I’d like to use your Cryo-Electron Microscope to help LifeGen do some research work.’ ‘That may be difficult, they have a heavy work load at the moment.’ ‘I’m willing to be very generous.’ ‘I’ll see what can we can do Pat. Steve is realistic, they’re always on the lookout for new sources of funding.’
CHAPTER 5 THREE WEEKS PASSED AND ANNA called Pat Kennedy to announce the completion of the translation from Old Spanish and Nahuatl to English. ‘Excellent news Anna. Have you discovered anything interesting?’ ‘It depends, all the plants have been identified by Phytotech’s team, most of which are generally known to botanists. But there are a few pages that struck me as being different from the rest.’ ‘Oh, and what are they?’ ‘They’re to do with sacrifices, sacred plants and ritual drinks.’ ‘Sacrifices?’ ‘Yes Pat, human sacrifices.’ ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed, even though that kind of Aztec practice was nothing new to him. As soon as the Spanish conquistadors arrived in the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan, they were witnesses to human sacrifices when the priests cut open the chests of sacrificial victims and offered their still-beating hearts to their gods, Tlaloc and Huitzilopochtl. The lifeless bodies of their victims were then thrown down the stairway of the Grand Temple which towered as high as a fifteen story building. Legend said the temple was flanked by a display made entirely of human skulls mounted on wood poles, a story long dismissed by historians, until in
2015 and 2018 archaeologists found the towers and racks of skulls described by the Spanish. The Spanish historian Friar Diego de Duran reported that over 80,000 men, women and children were sacrificed for the enthronement of Moctezuma's predecessor. Human sacrifice was an essential part of Aztec beliefs and civilisation. DNA tests showed the victims to be outsiders, probably slaves and captives. Sacrifice was a message, a threat, a warning to enemies and subject peoples, in the same way as Rome used slaves in gladiatorial games or the killing of servants and captives for the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs and Chinese emperors. The Aztecs, like other pre-Columbian civilisations, waged war to capture prisoners to supply their endless need for sacrificial victims. Worse still, the headless bodies served as ritual food for the upper classes of Aztec society, confirmed by images showing body parts being eaten and confirmed by the trace of knife cuts on the victims’ bones found by archaeologists at sites around Mexico City. The consumption human blood and flesh was a ritual part of Aztec life. ‘They used the victims blood to make concoctions for the emperor and priests to drink on special occasions.’ ‘Barbaric.’ ‘They describe the concoction which was made from different plants, one is related to Solanum lycopersicum, that is a tomato plant, a species that originated in western South America and Central America, could be interesting as it’s an important source of antioxidants and phytochemicals.’ ‘Interesting.’
‘It’s here,’ she held up a copy of the page, ‘the Nahuatl glyph, even a picture of a sacrifice,’ she pointed to an image, ‘look.’ ‘The other is a creosote bush.’ ‘Creosote,’ exclaimed Pat wrinkling his nose. ‘Yes, Larrea tridentata, it belongs to the Zygophyllaceae family … a source of NDGA.’ ‘NDGA?’ ‘Nordihydroguaiaretic acid.’ ‘Hmm ... I’ve heard of that, remind me what it’s used for?’ ‘I’m not a specialist, but looking it up I’ve read that a study was carried out by feeding mosquitoes with NDGA to test the effect on their average life span.’ ‘Did it work?’ ‘Yes, their life span was increased by 50%.’ Pat was now very attentive. ‘In other studies various phytochemicals have increased the lifespan of yeasts, worms, flies, bees, mosquitoes, fish, laboratory mice, and laboratory rats.’ Pat smiled. ‘Tejate is also described as one of ritual drinks mixed creosote leaves.’ ‘Tejate?’
‘It’s made from cacao, maize and mamey sapote, that's the fruit of a Mexican tree, Pouteria sapota, which like cacao is rich in antioxidants which have a strong cytotoxic activity.’ ‘Cytotoxic?’ ‘Cell killers, cancer cell killers, something to do with scavenging ….’ ‘Fantastic. Have you spoke with Michel and Henri?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’ll speak with them. We should get together to discuss this Anna. When are you free.’ ‘I’ll be in Paris next week with Dee, we’re planning a trip to San Francisco. I’ll also be attending a conference at the Getty Center in Santa Monica, Luis is giving a paper and we’ll visit his botanical reserve.’ ‘Great, speak to Dee, we can have lunch together before you leave if you can manage that.’ ‘I’ll do that Pat.’
CHAPTER 6 SHARK ATTACKS ALWAYS MADE HEADLINES and the news that the legless body of a European washed up on the beach of Belize’s top tourist resort attracted journalists always on the lookout for sensational news in nearby Cancun. Mike Watson, an expatriate journalist who freelanced for the The Riviera Maya Times, was the first to be tipped off by a contact of his close to the Belize City Police Department. The remains were that of a Russian expatriate, one Igor Vishnevsky, his body, identified by a hotel room card found in a back pocket, had been found floating close to the beach near the Coral Cove Resort on Ambergris Caye, and according to the autopsy had been exsanguinated—drained of all its blood. Remains they were, all that was left of the Russian’s legs were a few shreds of flesh and shattered bone, a shark attack, concluded the police report, which didn’t explain the life jacket still on the torso and what was left of a nylon rope knotted to it. Watson who lived in Playa del Carmen flew down to met his contact at San Pedro on Ambergris Caye. San Pedro was the capital of Belize’s Barrier Reef, a national treasure, the longest barrier reef in the Western Hemisphere and the second longest in the world, a top destination for scuba divers. ‘La Isla Bonita’ named after Madonna's hit ‘… last night I dreamt of San Pedro’ had a population of about 10,000 permanent residents and its police
department consisted of less than a handful of officers with a small tight budget. The Caye, in reality a peninsula, separated to the north from the Mexican mainland province of Quintana Roo by the Zaragoza Canal, was 40 kilometres long and about a couple across at its widest point. The small airport ran alongside San Pedro, which lay on the southern part of the Caye parallel to many of the town’s shops, hotels, and restaurants. It was a laid back tropical paradise, close to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve—a natural protected area filled with colorful fish, turtles and clear blue water, no high-rise hotels … and few tourists with the world plunged into the middle of the Covid pandemic. In normal times it would have been filled with scuba divers, snorkelers, windsurfers and lovers of other watersports. Watson was met by Alan Kershaw at the airport, a former Belizean police officer, who now ran a small security firm in San Pedro providing services for the airport, hotels and banks. ‘How’s Playa del Carmen Mike?’ ‘Not too bad, there’s a few tourists now, hotels are picking up, and here?’ ‘Not good, business is bad.’ ‘Sorry to hear that.’ ‘Let’s go eat and I’ll tell you all about our late friend.’ They drove a few blocks north to Hurricane's, a small restaurant overlooking a jetty that jutted out into the transparent waters on the Caribbean shore.
‘It’s better here,’ Al told him, ‘not many people, besides their ceviche is good.’ They took a table inside where an air-conditioner wafted a cool stream of air over them and ordered a couple of beers. ‘So it seems the sharks are hungry here,’ said Watson. ‘Well not that hungry, otherwise they would have eaten the lot,’ he said smiling. ‘Rotten meat according to the police.’ ‘A Russian.’ ‘That’s it.’ ‘They didn’t release the name.’ ‘No, pressure from the Mexican embassy.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Russia doesn’t have an embassy here, they're represented by Mexico, a guy called Demitriev who goes between Mexico City and Cancun, supposed to be a commercial attaché. We think he’s a GRU agent, linked to the shark attack victim, a certain Igor Vishnevsky, I’ve since discovered, a Russian expat living in Cancun, travelled on a Cypriot passport.’ ‘What the hell are Russians doing in Belize!’ ‘That’s the question. What I’ve learnt is Vishnevsky was wearing a lifejacket and was dressed. Attached to the lifejacket was a nylon boat cord, it was as if he had been thrown overboard, towed behind a boat.’ ‘Shark bait.’ ‘Right.’
‘Drug traffickers?’ asked Watson. ‘I don’t think so, even if it’s one of their methods.’ * At precisely the same moment the two men ordered a second beer at Hurricane’s, it was ten in the evening in Moscow, where Oleg Sedov, a member of the Russian state security apparatus, was dining with an old friend, Andrei Rublev, a director of the VTB bank. ‘It seems like our friend has had a boating accident,’ said Rublev. ‘Yes, according to Demitriev he fell overboard,’ Sedov replied with a shrug. ‘The question that's worrying us is the media, it won’t be long before somebody starts to ask questions about his links to the bank.’ ‘We’re looking after that, we’ve taken care of his associates, Wallace and Simmonds.’ ‘I’ve heard one of them was in Spain. Perhaps you could find out if it was linked in any way to our business?’ instructed Rublev. ‘I’ll do that.’ ‘We wouldn’t want any bad publicity, would we?’ said Rublev tersely. * An hour later Demitriev got a call from Moscow with instructions to investigate the movements of Simmonds before his unfortunate accident.
Sedov was not only very unhappy about the financial loss, he was furious at the risk of being caught up in a scandal in that Caribbean backwater, one that could be used to embarrass the Kremlin, at a moment when it was trying to shore up its friends in the region, especially Maduro’s shaky regime in Venezuela, just before the US elections. ‘We’ve found out that Simmonds travelled to Spain … San Sebastian,’ announced Demitriev. ‘Find out why.’ ‘We know he stayed at Hotel de Londres, five stars, very up market.’ ‘Good, there must have been a good reason for that. Was there anything special happening there during his stay?’ ‘I’ll check that out.’ ‘Do it quick, your men already fucked up with Wallace,’ Sedov said, ‘keep me updated.’ He then hung up. Demitriev immediately called his colleague in Madrid who informed him they had no consular representation in San Sebastian. He then remembered Biarritz, about half an hour’s drive to the north of the city, which, if he remembered rightly, was a spot long favoured by Russians with its Alexandre Nevsky Orthodox Cathedral, a chic seaside resort that was a getaway for a number of Muscovite oligarchs, amongst them was Vladimir Putin’s son-in-law, Kirill Shamalov. Demitriev checked out the Honorary Vice Consul, Jacques Gautier, a French intellectual, evidently a good friend of Russia, a man of letters, an
historian, a lover of good wine, sociable and worldly, and described as a person of influence. He called Gautier, who not only spoke good Russian, but was also very voluble and agreed to help Demitriev with his enquiries. The next day he was informed that the main cultural event on the date in question was the Feria de Arte y Antiguedades at the Kursaal, a fine arts and antiques salon. Demitriev ran an internet search and downloaded the catalogue. He then checked out the names of the participating art galleries and conference attendees, which he cross-referenced with the guest list at the Hotel de Londres for the corresponding dates, which he had received earlier when checking Simmond’s movements. A few more searches turned up Asia Galleries in Paris, and its owner, a certain Scott Fitznorman, who moved in rich collector circles. On show in his Parisian gallery, amongst other fine objects d’art, were a number of preColumbian pieces. Demitriev had a hit, there was definitely a link, but what exactly was Fitzwilliams’ relationship, if any, with Simmonds? He decided to salvage Simmonds’ Toyota Land Cruiser, perhaps there were some clues to be gleaned in the SUV. There were two questions, the first was could they remember exactly where he had run off the road, and second had the swamp alligators left anything worth salvaging after a month under water. He questioned the Russian who had followed Simmonds, one of the bratva, a gangster, who ran a restaurant in Cancun after fleeing New Jersey with the FBI on his heels, one of Demitriev's acolytes He had no idea where
the unfortunate accident happen, he knew little about Belize. He then questioned the bratva’s sidekick, a Mexican thug, and had better luck, he knew the road that led to Caracol, and remembered a panel that warned drivers of wild animals crossing. Demitriev ordered him to locate the spot, but not to touch anything. A couple of days later the Mexican informed him they had found the place and together they set out with a recovery truck and three helpers. The sun was rising when they arrived on the edge of the steaming jungle covered swamp. In normal times there were few if any vehicles at that time of day, not that many people visited the archaeological site, but times were not normal and with the pandemic the flow of visitors had come to a complete stop. A few fading tire marks remained on the edge of the road, in the undergrowth they could still see the traces of shrubs and saplings that had been smashed when Simmo’s Land Cruiser careered off the road. In the vigorous tropical climate the foliage had already grown back into place, filling the space with a dense screen of new branches, bright green leaves and fresh undergrowth. The men quickly located the vehicle beyond the roadside vegetation, its roof under about half a metre of stagnant water. Not without difficulty they broke the back windows and threaded a cable through the Land Cruiser’s compartment which they then hooked onto the crane and slowly winched the vehicle out of the swamp onto the flatbed of the recovery truck. As they pull the driver’s door open, a wave of fetid black water rushed out. Behind the wheel was what remained of Simmo, a rotten slime covered skeleton in shirt sleeves and pants slumped over the wheel. He’d probably
been knocked unconscious by the shock when the Land Cruiser was forced off the road at about 100 km/h and drowned immediately. Demitriev searched behind and under the seats, he found a backpack, in the glove box there was nothing but the water sodded papers of the vehicle. He then pulled the pulled the putrid remains out onto the side of the road where he searched the pockets and found an iPhone and leather wallet. When he was sure there was nothing else remaining in the Land Cruiser he ordered the men to throw the hideous skeleton back into the swamp, which they reluctantly did, gagging as they gathered the pieces, together with the license plates, before driving Demitriev back to Belize City with the backpack, wallet and iPhone. * Back at his place in Belize City, Demitriev emptied the wallet, spreading out the different papers, credit cards and a number of business cards on a table to dry in the sun. In the backpack were a couple of books on the history of the Mayas and Aztecs and a few sodden photocopies in a plastic pocket which he also spread out on the table. He then put his dirty clothes into a sack and took a shower to rid himself of the smell of death that still clung to him. As he scrubbed himself under the open air shower looking out onto his luxuriant garden, he wondered what Simmonds links were with Anna Basurko, who according to her sodden business card was an archaeologist with an address in San Sebastian, Spain.