The Gilgamesh Project Book II: La Isla Bonita by John Francis Kinsella

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

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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 Mexican-
American 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 Covid-

19, 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 Aix-
Marseille 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 pre-
Columbian 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.