PAPERBACK BOOKS

THE TWELFTH MAN


 

IRAQ 1850's Archaeologist Sir Henry Layard discovers Twenty-Five Thousand Sumerian clay tablets buried deep in earth.  Commissioned by the Queen to translate their coded meanings, he begins to pen a journal. Could Sir Henry’s discovery evidence Man’s birthplace and manipulation by a ruling class of Blue Bloods?  

TODAY  In the midst of a deadly H1N2  flu epidemic unleashed upon the world’s population, twelve of the most influential financiers hold a clandestine Summit in Western Europe, headed by The Albino, a man claimed to be Marquis de Illuminati. Their secret agenda, masked as the so-called “cure”: A Microchipped Population. When Doc Mitchell, Senior Intelligence Officer with the NSA (National  Security Agency) learns of The Albino’s agenda, he assigns Guy Fawkes, a  mind-controlled assassin, to eliminate several key players, including the first Australian-born President of the World Bank,  Randall P. Cahill, who’s now refusing to back loans to finance the  human  implantation process.

Doc knows this Mission will implicate the President of the United States Richard Davies (his close friend and Freemasonic Brother), top politicians and investors, who now stand to lose their fortunes in a vast criminal conspiracy.

Will Guy Fawkes complete his mission?

Meanwhile, millions are dying daily across the world, and  something must be done.

In Store Price: $29.00 
Online Price:   $28.00

ISBN: 978-1-921574-72-6 Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 285
Genre:  Fiction
 

 

 


 

 


Author: Christopher Gordon
Imprint: Poseidon
Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2009
Language: English


HOME PAGE

AUTHOR’S BIOGRAPHY

A native of the United States, the author resides in Melbourne, Australia, with his wife and daughter.

Read a sample of the book:

When men began to increase in number on the Earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of Gods saw that the daughters of men were beautiful and they married any of them they chose...The Nefilim were on Earth in those days, and also afterwards, when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, the men of renown. 

Genesis 6:1-4        

    

It will take a more definite recognition of the Grand Architect of the Universe before the apex stone is finally fitted into place and this nation in the full strength of its power is in position to assume leadership among the nations in inaugurating the New Order of the Ages.

Henry A. Wallace Vice President of the United States

 

Prologue 

 

Iraq—1850’s 

The sun rose into a raging ball of orange fire.  Sir Henry looked below his dangling feet as he climbed into the bowels of Earth. Sand, between his teeth, crunched like grit. Sand, fine as powder, coated his eyes. Sand, golden, infected his scraped knees. Sweat poured from his thinning face, to which he absently swept with an old kerchief. He wore a khaki wide-brim hat, a cliché, which had barely protected his skin from the blazing rays. Hot winds, bursting into sandstorms, whipped his once youthful, now weathered face. Exhausted from the descent, he drank cool water from his canteen before continuing his task.

Sir Austen Henry Layard, known to some as Layard of Nineveh, was an Honorary Degree recipient from Oxford at the height of the Romantic Period. Soon afterward, he entered Temple Bar and took a seat in British Parliament. His obsession to find the genesis of the human race consumed him like the vast pit in which he now stood.

Abu, Sir Henry’s long-time colleague, and native of the region, was in awe by the Englishman’s relentless hard work. Tall and dark, with full lips and an almost inhumanly large physique—features more Egyptian than Iraqi—Abu was astounded by Sir Henry’s instinct and skills, “The desert,” he said in the vast hollowness, the acoustics echoed his baritone cry, “The desert runs through the Englishman’s veins!” He laughed in astonishment as an impromptu round of applause came once more.

The entrance was flanked by impressive winged lions made of gold.  Sir Henry gazed in awe at the entry to an eight-chambered library: a King’s library. He wiped the dust from his eyes; he pointed toward the Heavens, at a god-like figure sitting on a throne; and dark skinned servants, giant and muscular, bearing gifts to their ostensible deity. From the south side, a blue and gold enameled figure: a King leaning on an apse, next to this was a pious four-winged Queen. To the east and west lay smaller pieces of clay tablets. “Abu, do you see what I have uncovered? Look, look upon our ancestors.”

“They,” Abu said captivated, his voice low, “they are from the beginning of civilization.  Heavenly, quite literally, heavenly.”

“What do you make of it?”

Abu turned to Sir Henry, thoughtfully he said, “It is a land that existed before Babylon.”  He gave a slight cautioned look at Sir Henry. “It is a Mesopotamian civilization that is the Genesis for us all.” The desert man’s big black eyes opened even wider. “Your discoveries…they predate the Hittites, the Canaanites, and the Akkadians. It is the source...the source…of our lives, but, it is more than that, for, it is Dilmun—a place of magic. The land of spirits and the fountain of youth, it is here that the deity Lagash first contemplated gods and love, these stones shall tell a story of interbreeding. Your discovery, I dare say in the most humble way are most important to us all.” Abu spread his powerful arms, bowed slightly, reaching and gesturing—the world—sitting, legs crossed on the unending desert floor, hundreds of feet subterranean, near the gates of the great library.

One of the few men from Iraq having had the benefit of a private education, Abu had learned to speak English as a young child. As a young man in the desert, he taught himself to read the terrain: he listened to and grew to understand the desert, paid attention to visiting excavators, and in time, became a local legend, indeed a legend suggesting possession of special powers, of inter-dimensional telepathy—he could talk to the spirits. Indeed, Abu shared an inner spiritual knowledge with the desert, explaining to Sir Henry that this newly discovered Library told tales of god worship and kingship on Earth, in a language that had been passed down by the Mesopotamians, their progeny and bloodlines…and all civilizations that came subsequently.  

Another round of applause from his crew echoed in the vast hollow ground as artists recorded, in watercolor and pencil sketches, an accounting of Sir Henry’s discovery: an Akkadian library filled with dictionaries and cuneiform texts, a language akin to Ancient Egypt, predating any other time known to Man—an early language yet to be discovered. 

Sir Henry turned to Abu and a few other experts in archaeology.  “My friends, the Old Book talks of a place known in Genesis…yes, Genesis I believe…of a place known as ‘Shinar.’ Could this be that  place?  Could this spot be the hall of records, depicting a front row seat to the evolution of Man himself?”

Abu answered serenely: “This is the Mesopotamian land where the ancient Hebrew’s Diaspora grew.  Where man saw himself, for the first time, connected to the planets—to the gods themselves!  Indeed, my western colleague, Genesis talks of Shinar.  But to us Iraqis, we know that civilization as the ancient Sumerians.”

Sir Henry thought it not possible, but even in that cold vast pit Abu’s words had sent chills down his spine.  “Ancient Sumerians.  Yes, of course.”  He began to understand. “For thousands of millennia, homo erectus had lived a dull, primitive life.  Then, one day, an ancient Library literally defines a time where Man…” he paused here, careful not to offend any Christian archaeologist who might have been standing around, listening intently.  Sir Henry cleared his throat.  He had wanted to say, that it appears from the texts that a modern, advanced culture ensued and flourished, expanding to the Nile and Egypt, up the Mediterranean. He had wanted to say that, by the time Babylon conquered as much of the world as possible, religion, economics, art, law and medicine were old news.  He had wanted to say these things, but abstained.  There would be plenty of time to engage in formal discussions, he thought. 

It had taken his crew three months to uncover twenty-five thousand clay tablets, bas-reliefs, and etched depictions of black-headed slaves. Sand-caked bas-reliefs and monumental texts were packaged and placed in huge wood-slat crates and shipped, from the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, then to Britain, in the manner and tradition of the ancient mercantile. He had gone through great lengths to carry out his excavations. It was worth it: soon after his arrival to London, Sir Henry was commissioned by the Queen to give a formal lecture series at King’s College, using his finds as demonstrative proof of the Ancient Sumerian’s existence and influence on Man.

For long years, Sir Henry had worked tirelessly to complete his essays on the subject of Sumer, while writing in his private journal that the discovery of the Akkadian King Ashurbanipal translated the Sumerian language, unveiling Man’s birthplace: a truth he wished to keep quiet. Not an apocalyptic, nor prophecy, but rather, manipulation, by ruling class of blue bloods. His private journal and essays narrate a story of cultural imperialism and epistemology, a story sublime, and in a sense, genius. 

Boca Raton, Florida 

 

Heavy iron gates swung open wide as the white Mercedes Sedan with blue tinted windows pulled through the front entrance of Boca Palms Country Club. Sunshine made the black asphalt glitter with silvery specks, as if diamonds were in the road. Slowly, the Mercedes made its way, passing Spanish style homes, where Cadillacs sat idle on turquoise and terra cotta driveways.  A half-mile up was Boca Palms Clubhouse, and coming into view were those silly golf carts carrying men with brightly colored pants and hats and shirts.

Passed the clubhouse he turned left onto a private road. Flanking both sides were rows of condominiums.  Nothing seemed out of place: Mexican immigrants—probably illegal—worked hard on the grounds, keeping the bougainvilleas and the palm trees trimmed and manicured, the red ants in check, and the poolside free from any debris from leaves and lawn clippings. He did not look at or acknowledge the club’s workers, nevertheless he paid attention to their work, and, satisfied his condo fees were well spent, he pulled into the driveway.

He did notice that Nancy’s candy-apple-red Mercedes SLK convertible was gone. Obviously, she had gone shopping, or perhaps she was at the club having drinks, or whatever she  did on Tuesdays.

Slowing down, he passed a 1950’s Cadillac with a thick sun-worn green cover, a dark green Jaguar with gold trim, and a white commercial van, obviously an electrician or HVAC repairing one of the air conditioners that always malfunctioned due do their excessive use. Geoffrey Forester Parker secured his car, grabbed his worn burgundy leather brief case, and exited the garage walking past the courtyard.  He proceeded to the screened-in lanai kicking little salamanders along the way.  He entered the air-conditioned condominium through the kitchen’s sliding glass door.

He was alone. It felt good, he thought, to be home early and in the cool air-conditioning—not that he needed permission to come home early; but, he’d get more work done here than at the office.  Absently, he placed his briefcase on the quartz countertops in the remodeled kitchen (Nancy insisted on the best). He looked around for a moment.

The foyer opened up to the living area that decorated cherry-wood floors, pastoral drapes and, what Parker considered to be, very Floridian wicker furniture. Nancy had shut all the blinds; she always said the sun would fade the floors and fabric. Yawning, he sat on the love seat reviewing his notes, preparing for a board meeting, penciling his thoughts on a yellow legal pad. Everything seemed still. Convincing himself that he needed a drink, rising, he moved slowly to the wet bar.  He reached into an ice bucket and clinked and handful of wet banana shaped cubes against crystal.  His ears perked. Nancy?  Nancy’s come home. He paused for a moment and poured three fingers of vodka.  Another sound grabbed his attention. Nancy? Is that...?

In a split moment, a razor-sharp wire dug deep into Parker’s neck. Blood gushed. His tongue pushed from his blue mouth, his knuckles turned pink to white, his stomach let loose, spilling what was inside of him. Eyes bulged and his arms flailed as the crystal highball shattered into a million shards of tiny diamonds. He dropped dead weight onto the cherry wood floor. A garrote sliced halfway through his neck.

Careful not to track wet footprints, the killer quickly dressed into his work clothes that read Florida Power and Electric embroidered on the back, grabbed his kit, slipped past the busy landscaping crew, and climbed into a white van, out of sight from any neighbor.

As he settled behind the wheel of the white van, a bright red convertible, driven by a woman in her fifties wearing designer sunglasses and a pastel scarf around her salon-styled hair, rolled up the private drive towards the condominium; he glanced quickly and pulled his bill cap over his large skull, covering his face. A moment later, he drove from the private residences, losing sight of the red convertible in the rear mirror. Had the woman noticed him? He approached the wide gates that automatically swung wide. The van traveled another thirty minutes, passing Lauderdale’s neon automobile dealerships, finally making it to  South Beach, parking at a street meter, with the intent to abandon. Walking on 8th Street to Collins Avenue, the killer passed Miami Ballet Stage Door and quickly lost himself with colorful locals, then, eventually, he’d leave Miami, spending the next several days on a private boat off Marathon Island, the Keys.

Chapter 1 (Part Sample) 

Monday, July 10—Atlantic Northeast  

Early in the morning, those hours of oblivion, those deep hours before dawn, he awakened. His skull ached, but his body was refreshed and strong. He slipped out of bed and walked toward the window. He tugged it open, stuck his head outside and took a breath. The moist air filled his lungs. As he exhaled, his breath was visible in the heavy July atmosphere.        The digital ring of his cell phone sounded. He gave it a thoughtful glance. Reluctantly, he opened the cover, placed it to his ear and waited for the caller to speak.

“It’s me,” Eliot Harness said.

“I’m here.”

“Doc’s going to brief us tonight, you leave at four o’clock, I’ll send someone to get you.” He paused, and then added, “Can you be here by that time?”

“Do I have a choice?” said Guy Fawkes, standing, peering over the harbor.

“No, of course not,” Harness said, ending the call.

Fawkes was un-amused. Looking out toward the horizon that shadowed seagulls circling below a red-gray sky, the polluted water’s opaque reflection glistened in his eyes as he sipped peppermint tea. The warm liquid penetrated his throat and soothed his head. Washington. DC meant secrets. With secrets come leaks. With leaks come problems. Had this assignment leaked? After fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups, wearing a pair running shoes and a black track-suit, Fawkes stretched and headed out into the city’s smog. He ran for miles, a reward for years of deeply ingrained training and conditioned reflexes.

Drenched from sweat, Guy Fawkes briskly walked down a narrow alley where tandem-parked cars sat idle. BMW’s and Saab’s were crammed next to one another, rodents scurried near open dumpsters that stank of garbage. He kept his balance on the slippery, centuries-old cobble stone streets and moved quickly to the rear ingress of the Omni Parker House Hotel. The Hotel’s security camera peered out from the corner of the roof-top, moving every few seconds a few degrees from right to left, observing those who’d passed by its all-seeing eye. Avoiding the main lobby, Fawkes took the inner staircase: a white-yellow interior, with a deco-tiled stairwell bordered by ornate crown moldings and a hundred years of lead-paint. Adroitness carried him up to the fifth floor three steps at a time. At the door of his suite, he swiped the card-key and entered. Once inside he prepared another peppermint tea. Then, he packed his kit and prepared to meet with Eliot Harness.

False life and mind, Guy Fawkes was willing to compromise a mark at the behest of his handler, to be part of Project Twelfth Star, PTS. Twelfth Star operated in a corrupt, steel-mill town that sat in the valley of the Western Reserve range, a most corrupt town.  A corrupt town located along the oily banks of the Mahoning River. A corrupt town where organized crime pervaded. A corrupt town where the residents kept their mouths’ shut in fear of reprisal from mobsters. A corrupt town situated in a deep valley of industrial waste and suburban, working class ethnics, poor blacks, and, domiciled on the outskirts—Baptist farmers and their large families.

Fawkes thought about Project Twelfth Star. He knew it fell outside the purview of government and congressional interference, its “enactment” passing constitutional muster.  He smirked. It was with the National Security Agency, NSA—specifically its black operations—that he became an “employee”.  

Realizing the time, he prepared for his trip to Washington, DC. His head ulcerated at the very mention of DC, giving him quick flashes of mental anxiety attacks. The briefing with Harness made it even worse. With a groan, Fawkes squeezed his temples as throbs of pain ate away at his cerebrum, like a room full of snare drums ripping off paradiddles with speed and precision.

Showering a few minutes later, as the scalding water smacked and splashed against his body, massaging his back and shoulders, he became lost in thought. And as the hot water shot out thin beads of powerful water, he stood motionless, thinking of Eliot Harness, thinking of DC.

 

 

HOME PAGE

All Prices in Australian Dollars                                                                    CURRENCY CONVERTER

(c)2009Poseidon Books           All rights reserved.