Irrefutable Proof: Mars Origin "I" Series Book II (3 page)

“Dr.
Dickerson? I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”

“She
worked with Dr. Margulies. They were very close. Like father and daughter. She
lives in the United States.”

“She?
Isn’t Justin a man’s name?”

“Yes,
but it is also her name. In this case Justin is a she.”

“Oh.
Maybe I should call her.”

“But,
still I can give you so much information about him,” Ghazi said.  “Where is
your pad? Are you to take notes as we speak?” Without waiting for an answer, he
offered, “I worked very closely with him, you know.”

“So
much information.” She seemed distracted.

“Yes,
it could fill up your day and your book.”

“Um,
yes, if only I could fill you up.”

“Excuse
me?”

“Your
coffee. I’m afraid it will get cold.”

Ghazi
looked down at it. “No. I think I will be fine. I was just waiting for my
pastry . . . And here comes the waiter with my
rugelach
now. Perfect timing.” 

The
waiter sat the flaky, chocolate pastry on the table. “Thank you,” Ghazi said. His
eyes seemed to sparkle as he pursed his lips and rubbed his hands together, and
then picked up his coffee cup. He tipped it toward her, like a toast, smiled
and put the cup up to his lips to drink.

Chapter
Two

It
was easy to get into his
shikunim
, a block tenement house covered in
pale Jerusalem-stone, in the south part of the City in Gonenim. Not a place
where people would be on the lookout or maybe even cared who went into where.
She had followed him home the day she had found out he knew about the manuscripts.

Walking
up through the dusty cluster of apartment blocks, the faint smell of salt from
the nearby water edged its way up her nostrils. Her low-heel, brown pumps
crunched over the sand that had been dragged in from the outlaying dunes.
Sounds of the shouts and laughter of children running past her, and the drone
of car engines rattled close by as she climbed the small incline of the road to
his apartment. She crossed the treeless, concrete courtyard and then halfway up
the two flights of stairs she remembered that she needed help getting in.
Heading back down, she found the brown door in a corner of the first floor that
had ‘Manager’ written on a gold plate plastered across the front of it.
A
quick conversation with the building manager
, she thought, as she knocked,
and
I’ll be in
.

With
hands wiping away absent tears she relayed to the short, stout, manager that
she was Ghazi’s aunt. She had come to check on what he had so she would know
how to proceed with packing and moving it out.

“But
of course,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, apparently
interrupted from a meal by the knock at his door. The look of sympathy on his
face, told her she had him. He rubbed over his brown, curly hair, and then
patted his pockets. He dug deep into his front pants pocket, pulling out a set
of keys, but then he paused. “Are you alone?”

She
hesitated. She wasn’t sure of what family Ghazi had. Perhaps the man knew his
family, or girlfriend, or someone else he expected to be there.

“No
one else was strong enough.” She pulled her tan trench coat closed, and looked
blankly past his shoulder. “Still too soon.”

“Yes.
I understand. Here, follow me.” The manager led her up the stairs and opened the
door to the apartment. Standing with his back against it, he nodded as she slid
by him into the small living room.

Stepping
in, she took a deep breath, and with a sad smile she turned around, her eyes
met his. “Do you mind if I have a moment alone?”

“Please,”
he said, and bowed his head. “Take your time.” He left and pulled the door shut
behind him.

 A
small apartment.
Very neat
, she thought as she glanced around. She
breathed in the smell of lemons and disinfectant. A dead man’s home. Everything
looked scrubbed clean.

She
surveyed the room. His things were now just things. They had no meaning.
Perhaps if he hadn’t been involved in things that didn’t concern him, he might
have been home right now. She patted her hand on the couch pillow.

Quite
pleased with herself, she had never spoken to Ghazi before the day she had set
up the meeting to have coffee with him. It was such a clever little ruse she
had come up with, and it had worked wonderfully.
Poor Ghazi
, she
thought, a grin curling up the side of her lip. He said he didn’t even know any
other languages. Perhaps he didn’t know what was in the untranslated copy of
the manuscripts.

Oh
well. Next time I’ll find out more about the person before I make a rash
decision on what to do
,
she thought.
Shouldn’t be too hasty
.
But what’s done is done.

She
snickered. “Perhaps I should have let him have that cafè macchiato,” she said
to the room. “It was, after all, the last thing he would ever have to drink.”

She
walked over and stared out of the solitary window in the room, replaying the
morning over in her head.

His
pupils had started to dilate even before he excused himself, she remembered,
abruptly calling their meeting short. He had to leave, he’d told her, because
he felt a headache coming on, licking his lips and swallowing hard. No doubt
his mouth and throat had started to get dry. She cocked her head to the side
with a smile, recalling him shielding his eyes from the sun that suddenly
seemed too bright. She chuckled at how he had to steady himself when he rose from
the table. Staggering down the street, not the same easy gait as when he
arrived.  He didn’t make it across Mevo HaMatmid before he collapsed.

Maybe
even convulsing as he fell
,
she mused.

It
had all been so alarming. Everyone ran to him. A man walking close behind seemed
to almost catch him. She wasn’t quite sure, but it looked like a man that had
sat near them in the café.

She
ran her fingers across the back of the cushion of the square, orange sofa.
And
then there were the flashing lights
. The paramedics arriving. By then it
was too late.

“Yes,”
she said out loud. “It was really much too late for that.”

A
black iron and wood bookcase stood against the living room wall. She walked
over to it and picked up a picture of Ghazi standing with two women and three
men. Maybe his family. Maybe friends. As she held the picture, she stared at
the faces. They all smiled up at her, and she smiled back at them. A much
happier time for poor, dead Ghazi.

In
the corner, by the window, set a metal desk. A brown mailing wrapper sat atop
of it. She walked over and touched it. It had folds just where a notebook would
have been.

This
could be it.

She
remembered well the first day she’d seen him at the university. He’d come with
Dr. Margulies, and had had that beautiful smile, the same one he had worn today
when he walked toward the café. He had really captured her imagination.

And
on that fateful day, nearly a year later, as fortune would have it, she had
been near the Dead Sea Scrolls Translation Committee’s rooms visiting one of
the scholars who was working on a commentary of the Scrolls when she ran into
him again.  She had shared lunch with the scholar. Keeping up with news about
the Scrolls, her interest going back to the days when Samuel Yeoman had been
Editor-in-Chief. Walking back from lunch, she had spotted Ghazi.

Standing
flush along the wall, just around the corner from the receptionist’s desk, she
stepped back, and ducked out of sight. She wanted to watch him. To look at him.
She peeked her head around to see him.

Maybe
when he leaves I’ll walk out and bump into him
, she had thought, she remembered biting
back a giggle.

Ghazi
stood, his elbows resting on the high-top counter, and spoke to the blonde,
overly flirtation receptionist. Telling her that he had stopped by because he
wanted to donate a notebook – no a
journal
, yes he used the word
journal. She smiled at the thought and fingered the wafts of her auburn hair
that had fallen around her face.

His
voice was soft.
Pleasant
, she thought. But a bit obsequious. Trying to
remain as still as she could in the hallway, she cocked her head to be able to
hear him better.

He
said he had a journal of one of the original translators of the Dead Sea
Scrolls. That it was an untranslated copy of some of the manuscripts that he
had while he worked on them.

She
straightened out her back.
An original translator of the Dead Sea Scrolls?
She strained to hear more.

Oh
how nice, Blondie, the secretary had said.

“Yes,”
he had said to Blondie, he thought it a nice gesture, too. He thought it would
be good to bring in the journal and have it added to the archive of the history
of the find. He told Blondie that he knew that there had been many donations
after the Jubilee from family and friends of the original translators, and he
wanted to give this in Dr. Margulies’ honor.

“Dr.
Margulies’ honor?” she had asked.

“Yes,
his father was one of the original translators,” he told her.

A
broad smile came over her face. “Really?” Blondie had asked.

“Yes,”
Ghazi said. He seemed excited to tell the story. “And this is his journal. It’s
very interesting. Here take a look. It is in his handwriting and in three
different languages.”

“That’s
very nice.” Blondie was pouring on the charm.

“Isn’t
it?” Ghazi had said. “Yes. He never knew his father. He died when Dr. Margulies
was quite young.”

“And
what was his father’s name?” she had asked.

“Dr.
Amos Sabir.”

Standing
in the shadows of the hallway, she gasped when she heard that name. Dr. Sabir.

Pressing
her back against the wall, she tried to catch her breath, and she now remembered
being so nervous. She slithered back until she thought she would be out of
sight and made her way back down the hallway.

How
did Ghazi have Sabir’s notebook?

Three
different languages
.
That’s just what Samuel had told her. And she had promised him she would help
to keep that secret.

Shaking
herself, she came back from her reverie. The thought of people seeing Dr.
Sabir’s notebook still made her shudder.

She
stood with her hand on Ghazi’s desk and grabbed the collar of her sweater. She
knew at that moment, the moment she heard Dr. Sabir’s name, she had to get that
journal. She would find a way to get back into the office and get it. But
first, she had realized, she must silence Ghazi from uttering another word
about it. He’d already blabbed to Blondie. Who else had he told?

A
sound outside of Ghazi’s door brought her attention back to the matter at hand.
She examined the wrapper, running her fingers over the face of it. “Dr. Justin
Dickerson.” She said, pleased with herself for finding it. “And in Cleveland,
Ohio, are you? I wonder what you might have found out from Dr. Sabir’s notebook.
You’ll be sorry if you’ve been snooping around in it. Ghazi could tell you how
sorry.” She giggled out loud. “If he could talk.”

She
folded up the brown wrapping paper and put it inside her purse. She brushed the
hair off of her face, and tied the belt of her coat around her waist, popping
up the collar.

Arriving
at the door, she placed her hand on the door knob, pulling it to her. Taking
one last look around, she sighed wistfully, “Now, Dr. Justin Dickerson,” she
said, “Let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

Chapter
Three

Cleveland
Heights
, Ohio

2011

“So,
where is Atlantis?” my husband, Mase, asked out of the blue. We were sitting at
the kitchen table. Mase was reading the newspaper and I was picking greens to
cook for Sunday dinner.

“What?”
I pulled a dark green leaf from the broad stem and dropped it into the large
bowl I was collecting them in.

“You
never did tell me what happened to Atlantis. Did you write about it in the new
book?”

The
new book
.

Just
the thought of it gave me pause. I still hadn’t finished it. All I cared about
was that, thank you God, nowadays those manuscripts didn’t ravage my brain
every second of the day like they used to.

“Yeah.
I’m still working on the final rewrite,” I said. “Do you think I should put it
in?”

“Duh.
Everyone wants to know about Atlantis.”

“Everyone
like who?” I laughed. “Who even read my first book? Probably nobody.”

I
had written a book based on manuscripts that I discovered had been found with
the Dead Sea Scrolls. The manuscripts contained a big revelation, but people
catching wind of the book, and it catching fire, hadn’t happened. Probably me
refusing to do any marketing for it hadn’t helped. I never checked on the sales
for it. But I knew they couldn’t be good. Still, just like Mase, my publisher
kept questioning me about finishing the sequel. I’m sure that little publishing
house had lost money by agreeing to publish me.

“Anyway,”
I said, looking across the table at Mase. “It’s not for me to explain every
ancient mystery. I am just gonna write about what was in the remaining
manuscripts that Dr. Sabir translated and be done with it.”

“You
mean that
you
translated.”

I
smiled. “Yeah. That I translated. People will have to figure the rest out for
themselves. I’m still nervous about revealing all that stuff. I’m only doing it
because I think the information should be out in the world somewhere. I don’t
want to have to feel guilty when I go to my grave.”

Mase
shook his head and chuckled.

“And
who knows if anyone,” I plucked at a leaf, “if they did read it, believed what
I wrote in that book.”

“Sooo?”
he said.

“So?”
I titled my head and looked at him.

“Atlantis?”

“Oh,
yeah. I forgot we were talking about Atlantis.”

He
narrowed his eyes waiting for me to answer. “Stop trying to change the subject,
Justin.”

“I’m
not.” I smiled. “C’mon.” I stood, pulled the dish towel I had thrown over my
shoulder off, and wiped my hands with it. Dropping it on the table, I said, “I
have to show you on a map. I’ve got an atlas in my study.”

We
headed down the hallway. Mase went in and plopped down in one of the chairs,
leaving me to struggle and get the huge book down off the top shelf of the
bookcase. I took it over to the desk, pushed the stuff that was lying on it
aside, and put the atlas down. Opening it up, I leaned over the desk and
flipped through the first few pages, searching for a map of the world that
would make it easy for Mase to follow.

“Plato
wrote - ” I said turning a page.

“Plato?”
he interrupted. “Justin. C’mon now. I just wanna know what the manuscripts said
about Atlantis. Not what Plato wrote.”

“Plato
knew about Atlantis,” I said, looking over at him. “Just maybe he found out
about Atlantis from someone who actually knew about my manuscripts.” I gave him
a cheeky grin. “Don’t you care about that?”

Mase
got up from the chair and walked over to the desk. Leaning down, he put his
face close to mine. “Justin.” He said my name and nothing else.

“Okay,”
I said, and chuckled. It was obvious he was not interested in the “backstory.”

“Here.”
I found a good map and pointed at a place close to the Mediterranean. “This is
the area that the people of antiquity called the Pillars of Hercules. They were
two huge rock formations that protruded off the shores of Africa and Spain
and flanked the entrance of this area.” I drew a circle with my finger. “It
leads out into the Atlantic.” I pointed to a spot on the map of the land masses
separated by a narrow waterway. “See. Look. It almost looks like the edges of
the two continents are kissing. Only about eight miles separate the shores of
Africa and Spain at this point. Can you see how close they are?” He nodded.
“So, on the Spain side there’s the Rock of Gibraltar, right here. That’s one
side of the Pillars. The other “rock” was either in Morocco, here,” I pointed,
“or here in Ceuta.” I hesitated, stood up straight, and looked at him. “You
know. I kinda like have to say Plato because he and Josephus-”

“See.
I don’t even know who that is.”

I
laughed. “You do know who that is. Josephus? From the Bible?” He looked at me
as if we had a two-inch plate of glass between us, and he couldn’t hear a word
I was saying. “Anyway,” I continued, taking the clue, “They were the only ones
of the ancients that wrote about Atlantis. Plato wrote that when you went
through the Strait - ”

“Straight?”

“The
Gibraltar Strait. S-T-R-A-I-T. It’s the waterway that is in this narrow
passage. Need to brush up on your geography?”

“No,
Sweetie. Now, keep going.”

“Well,
he -- he is Plato, said that when you pass through here, you would find
Atlantis.” I drew a line with my finger from the Mediterranean, through the Gibraltar
Strait and out into the Atlantic. “He said that the Continent of Atlantis was
bigger than Libya, although he probably meant all of Africa, and Asia combined. So here, take your finger,” I placed his finger on the map right in the
middle of the Mediterranean, where I had started. “Now follow along the Strait,
then pass through the Pillars of Hercules.” I dragged his finger through the
beginning of the route and let him finish the path without my guidance.

“Now,
what do you see?”

“Water.”

“No,
Mase. What land mass do you see?”

“I
see water. There is no land.”

“If
you keep going. Across the water. Into the Atlantic. What do you see?”

“North America.” He seemed irritated.

“And
South America, right?”

“Yeah.
I mean, of course. They’re both right there. Kind of stuck together, Justin.”

“Okay,
then.”

“Okay,
what?”

“You
just found Atlantis.”

“Uhm.
No. I found the Americas.”

“You
found Atlantis. The Americas and the Continent of Atlantis are one in the
same.”

“Atlantis
disappeared under water,” he said, not seeming to believe me.

“No.
The knowledge of
how
to cross the Atlantic disappeared, and when people
couldn’t travel farther, not able to cross the Atlantic anymore, the Continent
of Atlantis
disappeared
. At least in their minds.” I turned and looked
at him. “
We would give them life, but not all the knowledge that we had. It
would be lost to them
.’” I quoted.

“From
the manuscripts?”

“Mm
hmm.”

Thanks
to my photographic memory, more than twelve years later, I still remembered
every single word of the translation I did from Dr. Sabir’s journal.

“So,
Atlantis didn’t sink into the Atlantic Ocean?”

“Not
unless we live underwater.”

He
looked at me with narrowed eyes and said nothing.

“Mase.
C’mon. An entire continent larger than Africa and Asia combined could not just
disappear.”

“It
didn’t disappear. It sank.”

“A
continent that big could not have sunk, either. There would be evidence of it
somewhere. Has anyone ever found a large land mass under the Atlantic? No. I’ll
answer that one for you.”

“They’ve
found things under the ocean that show remnants of ancient cities.”

“Cities,
but not continents, Mase. Don’t you think that if an entire continent sunk we
would have been able to find it by now? I’m the archaeologist here. I would
know.” I stood up straight and rubbed the top of his head. “C’mon. I wouldn’t
tell you something wrong.”

He
stood up straight, turned around and went back and sat in the chair with that
“whatever” look on his face.

“Mase,”
I went over and knelt by him, “Archaeologists have used satellite space
photography, have digitally mapped out subsurface sites through ground
penetrating radar.” I counted it out on my fingers. “They have excavated a
hundred different sites underwater and used all the historical data they could
find to locate Atlantis. And not just in the Atlantic Ocean, but everywhere,
and they have found nothing.”

“Well,
maybe there just wasn’t such a place as Atlantis,” Mase said. “Some people
don’t believe there was anyway. Makes more sense than what you’re saying.”

“Oh,
there was an Atlantis.” I pushed up off the arm of the chair, walked back over
to the desk and closed the atlas. “It was a huge land mass in the Atlantic. And that land mass was North and South America. Our ancestors were able to cross
the Atlantic.” I reached up and tried to put the book back on the shelf. It was
too heavy and awkward, and Mase finally decided to come over and help me. “Ever
heard of the continental drift?” I asked as he took the book from me.

“Yeah.
Theory that the surface of the Earth moves around,” he said.

“Right.
All the continents started out stuck together. It’s called Pangaea, and then,
due to continental drift, they moved apart.”

“Yeah.
I know about that.”

“So,
millions of years ago when all the continents were smashed up together, cracks
started opening up through the surface. The holes spread into rifts and water
started first oozing and then gushing in between the cracks. That was the start
of the Atlantic Ocean. When it broke open, it pushed the land masses apart and
formed the continents.”

“Yeah.
And?”

“So,
those continents – Africa, Europe and the Americas – were closer together at
first.”

“You
said that.”

“Travel
distance wasn’t as far.”

“And
what? That’s when people, well, our ancestors, traveled between them.

“Yeah.
People traveled easier and faster between the continents. But once the land
started moving, it kept moving. Really, the land is still moving. But I
digress. At some point the land masses got too far apart for man to travel with
the technology they had at that point. Anyway, after a while it became too far
and too difficult for people to make the trip. That technology was gone. People
lost the know-how to do it. It’s called the
Lost Knowledge Theory
.”

“Yeah.
But we found out from the manuscripts that the knowledge was lost on purpose.”

“Me
and you know that.”

“And
everyone that’s read your book, he said, and winked at me.

Yep,
probably all ten of them
,
I thought.

“So,
the Americas,” I said, “the then called ‘Continent of Atlantis’ was forgotten.
The ‘true’ story of Atlantis has gone from real to legend to myth because no
evidence was ever found. But believe me, the continent is not. A myth, that
is.”

He
grunted, seemingly disgusted at the knowledge of all this stuff. He headed for
the door, and stopped just short of it. Turning around, shaking his head, he
said, “You know, Justin, you and your manuscripts are going to destroy all the
intrigue and excitement of our ancient history.”

“Ha-ha.
You’re upset about that. Wait until I tell you why they built the pyramids.”