James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

Porter whipped his head around. Against the blinding light of the windshield, he could clearly make out a man looking back, a face filled with darkness.

“Peter Arnott!” said Porter.

Arnott turned to the reporter. “Excellent work Mr. Goodwill.”

The assassin leaned again to Porter’s face and whispered. “I’ve never missed an opportunity to kill a mark I’ve been hired to hit. You would’ve been my first loss.”

It felt like a ski mask, but it didn’t matter what it was. Porter fought claustrophobia and couldn’t see a thing. They drove for hours, or so it seemed. No one said a word, and when the car finally stopped, Porter felt Harvey Goodwill grab his shoulder and come close enough to kiss his right ear.

“The cold sensation against the back of your neck is the icy muzzle of a lovely 10 mm Colt Delta Elite handgun,” said Goodwill. “We will escort you into a building, into an elevator, and into a room. You will say nothing, or you will be shot and buried in the cement of some new construction site. I have every reason to kill you for free, Mr. Porter. I fear no one. I suggest…silence.”

They wanted him alive. It was Porter’s only comforting thought. But his heart went into overdrive, and he pictured himself jumping off a building and into the tops of a brittle tree to escape. Stupid. He could have killed himself. But that was passed, and things had grown worse. If he tried to run now, it would definitely be the end.

It hurt when they tore the tape off his wrists. They never removed the ski mask. Would anyone see him, his head covered as he entered the building to which Goodwill alluded? Would they suspect anything nasty? Call in the police? Or would they be as dirty as the men who grabbed him? Porter would never be sure.

Finally, the short trek by foot ended as Goodwill had described.

Porter heard a door close. No one spoke. Goodwill released him. But the room reeked with the sensation of cold eyes and old breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Goodwill,” said an aged voice some ways away. It was a big room, with a ceiling low and soft enough that Porter heard no echo. In fact, as he thought about it, he heard nothing but the tick of a clock on an unseen wall. No cars outside, though when they had left the van he had no doubt he was in the middle of some city. Porter could hear his own heart pumping, and that worried him. He stood still as ancient stone in an Egyptian desert.

“Take off the mask, Mr. Porter.”

The light was bright as Porter pulled the hood from his head. He saw an expensive room with pictures of presidents and other prominent political figures along each wall but the one filled with windows covered by shades. Porter tightened his eyes on numerous faces from the dusty past he’d studied throughout his college career.

Was that Herodotus?

And that one Solon?

Thomas Jefferson?

A long table dominated the room, with high-backed chairs running around it. In each seat sat a man who easily should have been retired. They all looked at him through coarse webs of wrinkles. But they held themselves up with metal skeletons hidden beneath their flesh and atrociously expensive suits.

The one at the far end, whose features were difficult to see, spoke while the others listened. “You’ve failed us, Peter. We have confirmed that the FBI has quite a file on you at present. It’s only a matter of time before they track you down. You’re a liability now.”

“I brought you John Porter,” said Arnott without showing signs of stress. “I brought you the codex.”

“You have brought us, if only slightly, beneath the microscope of the ever searching Federal Bureau of Investigations. We can live with this. We can make up for your mistakes. We’ve returned from worse conditions in the past. But you must pay for your crimes.”

Arnott looked at Porter, and Porter saw all the blood drain from the pseudo-professor’s cheeks. “I still have assets to give.”

“You are a lie, Peter. You are a bad one. Goodwill, please escort him into the next room,” said the old man as the assassin’s black pistol lifted. The tip of the barrel bumped Arnott lightly against his cranium. “We will speak again in a moment.”

Porter watched Goodwill lead Arnott to the door.

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.”