Arnott said nothing, but kept his head high, his shoulders level, his eyes as unshaken as possible. But both Arnott and Porter knew he was a dead man.
“There are two kinds of people in this world, Mr. Porter,” said the old man at the end of the lengthy slab of cherry wood. “The successful and the unsuccessful. I’m sure you will agree that the difference between the two is that successful people do things they do not necessarily enjoy. Yet some things need to happen…for the good of the whole.”
In a moment of silence, Porter felt the old man’s eyes examining him from afar. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he realized the room was actually dimly lit from the ceiling. Then the gentleman said slowly, “Tell us the location of KM- 3. We know you have it, and we understand your motivation behind keeping it.”
“You want it destroyed,” said Porter, not hiding anymore. They recognized the truth as well as he did. But Porter couldn’t understand their motivations.
The old man at the far end of the table lifted his chin. “The rest of the world will thank you.”
“I will never give it to you. You’d better kill me now.”
Everyone smiled. Some even laughed lightly.
“We do not intend to make you a martyr, Mr. Porter. We won’t fuel your passionate religious flame. But there must be a balance in the world. The codex cannot come to light.”
“Like the Dead Sea Scrolls,” said Porter. “Were you the ones behind their suppression?”
The old man kept his hands under the table. He didn’t move at all while speaking. “You realize the scrolls of Qumran are trivial compared to KM-3. Their ambiguity among the professionals is an adequate shield protecting the Earth’s population. I do not intend to bribe you either, Mr. Porter, but we are willing to pay a worthy sum to take possession of your precious Mesoamerican codex.”
“So you can do what you will with it?”
“Don’t play hero, Porter. Your life is nothing. No one will notice or even care when you are gone.”
“I matter to you,” said Porter, his lips trembling.
“Two million dollars,” said the old man as others watched for Porter’s expression. “I’ve attempted to explain the value of KM-3. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Right.”
“The price is negotiable, Mr. Porter. We are prepared to discuss the manuscript’s worth in relation to your needs. And I am sure you recognize our resolve to purchase the document. You may choose not to sell. You have your agency. But you also must be aware that we will be obliged to kill you if you decide not to do business with us. What figure do you put on the codex?”
Smelling the freshness of the recently cleaned carpet, Porter imagined himself on a plane to Hawaii. A degree, a vacation, and all the money he would need for the rest of his life…it was all being laid before him. Like the kingdoms of the world placed by Satan before Christ in the first book of the New Testament. Yet this was different. This was what Porter longed for. Peace at last. Every stumbling block had dropped in his path, and all would be taken away instantly if he demanded it. They offered him power, not just money. They put him in a position to request anything. And he had the firm feeling they would comply. But could he ever revoke the truth, the testimony he’d given in court, the experiences he’d had, and the knowledge in his heart?
With wet lips, Porter said, “You know others will eventually seek out and find Ulman’s site. Albright’s article was enough to plant that seed of curiosity.”
The old man smiled. “You don’t know how easy it is to hide these things. You see…there has been a most unfortunate occurrence in the Highlands of Guatemala recently. There appears to have been a battle between drug lords in the area.”
“In Guatemala?!?” said Porter, realizing the lie.
“Rafael Madrigal threatened to blow up the entire plantation of his competidor, Antonio Janes. But Janes purchased the local anti-government guerrilla militia to intercept Madrigal’s powerful weapons. Regrettably, the army caught up with Madrigal’s men just outside of a little-known village in the Highlands…called Kalpa by the natives-You’ve heard of it.”
Porter ground his teeth and twisted his lips, his face growing red with anger while his heart melted with hopelessness.
“No one survived,” said the old man, leaning forward, pushing his unseen ribs into the cherry wood. “No modern Quiche Mayans, no guerrillas… The explosion may have provoked the 6.8 scale earthquake and recent lava flow mentioned in this week’s paper. Did you read the incoherent story? Only a short mention really. After all, who cares about a small band of Indians in the mountains of Central America? Who cares about rotting archaeological sites?”
Porter tried to steady his breathing. He was powerless to even stop the gentleman’s words.
“The entire area is buried again…by the hand of our sweet Mother Nature.” Relaxing back into the leather chair, the old man sighed. His words lacked no measure of force. “Now…where is KM-3.”
“I already gave it to Salt Lake City,” said Porter, wiping the wetness from his eyes. He tried to not think about those innocents, murdered in order to keep the past in the past.
“You lie badly.”
“I tell the truth much better,” said Porter. “Alred did it for me during my last minutes in court. I have the proof in my pocket. She was the one who had KM-3 during the whole trial. Actually, I understand she gave the codex to an old friend for safe storage. I told her to send it away, though it was the last thing she would have expected of me. In my pocket I have a certified mail receipt. It won’t take long for you to figure out who received it, I’m sure.”
“Andrews,” said the man at the end of the table.
One old fellow nearest Porter stood casually, walked to Porter and reached a hand into the pocket Porter indicated with a glance of his eyes while speaking. Andrews read the markings. He nodded to the gentlemen that Porter’s words were accurate.
“What does that mean?” said the man at the end of the table to another member of this secret board.
Joseph Smith leaned forward, curling fingers together in his relaxed fashion. His voice, deep as always, shifted in pitch as he pointed his face from the fellow at one end of the table first and then to Porter standing alone at the opposite end. “KM-3 is in the hands of the Mormon church now.”
Andrews sat down.
Smith looked at Porter with incalculable thought in his eyes.
Others stared at the table in front of them, their old brows rising and falling, their dry lips mumbling, their hands shifting.
Porter wondered if the time to die had come at last.
The room filled with wave after wave of thick silence.
The air conditioning shut off with a jump.
The quiet boomed louder than thunder.
“Then it’s over,” said the man at the far end.
Shaking, Porter ran multiple scenarios through his mind. What next? Should he sprint for the door? Was he dead already? Would they kill Alred and anyone who knew anything about the codex to cover all their footprints? Would they carry their covert works on to other members of the church? Leaders of the LDS faith?
First things first. If anyone would die, it would be John D. Porter. After a long pause, Porter finally said, “What about me?”
Squinting his colorless eyes, the old man at the end studied Porter…for a long time…before deciding.
CHAPTER THIRTY
7:16 p. m PST
“You have a nice day now,” said Bruno as Alred and Porter left the cafe. Porter felt the gaze of the boxer with ancient wisdom in his eyes. He smiled and waved.
Outside, the sun touched the horizon, lighting the world with a blaze of electroplated gold.
Alred frowned.
“You’ve done well, Mr. Porter,” said an old voice.
Porter looked behind him as the man with the British walk stopped. It was Joseph Smith, leaning on his cane as the jasmine-scented wind tugged at the bottom of his gray overcoat.