Praise for Peter James
‘Peter James has found his own literary niche, somewhere between Stephen King and Michael Crichton’
Mail on Sunday
‘Gripping … plotting is ingenious … in its evocation of how a glossy cocoon of worldly success can be unravelled by one bad decision it reminds me of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities’
The Times
‘Probably James’s finest novel to date. I have not read a work so focused and intense in its depiction of the classic Orwellian nightmare’
Shivers
‘A thought-provoking menacer that’s completely technological and genuinely frightening about the power of future communications
Time Out
‘James has been compared with Stephen King, but in many ways he’s better’
Daily Express
‘An awesome talent … one of the few writers working in the genre today whose work is always a pleasure to read and a disappointment to finish’
Starburst
‘A well-paced thriller that delivers maximum emotional torture’
Chicago Tribune
‘This compulsive story is a tale of the search for immortality … I cannot remember when I last read a novel I enjoyed so much’
Sunday Telegraph
By Peter James
Dead Letter Drop
Atom Bomb Angel
Billionaire
Possession
Dreamer
Sweet Heart
Twilight
Prophecy
Alchemist
Host
The Truth
Denial
Faith
Dead Simple
Looking Good Dead
Not Dead Enough
Dead Man’s Footsteps
Dead Tomorrow
CHILDREN’S NOVEL
Getting Wired!
Peter James was educated at Charterhouse then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the number one bestseller Possession, have been translated into thirty languages and three have been filmed. All his novels reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as science, medicine and the paranormal. He has produced numerous films, including the The Merchant Of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He also co-created the hit Channel 4 series, Bedsitcom, which was nominated for a Rose d’Or. He is currently, as co-producer, developing his Roy Grace novels for television with ITV Productions. Peter James won the Krimi-Blitz 2005 Crime Writer of the Year award in Germany, and Dead Simple won both the 2006 Prix Polar International award and the 2007 Prix Coeur Noir award in France. Looking Good Dead was shortlisted for the 2007 Richard and Judy Crime Thriller of the Year award, France’s SNCF and Le Grand Prix de Littérature award. Not Dead Enough was shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Thriller of the Year award and the ITV3 Crime Thriller Of The Year award. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London and near Brighton in Sussex. Visit his website at www.peterjames.com.
Peter James
ALCHEMIST
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Praise
By Peter James
About the Author
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by Orion
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books
Copyright © Peter James/Really Scary Books Ltd 1998
The moral right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this
condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781409132981
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
www.orionbooks.co.uk
‘There is one thing stronger than all the armies in the world; and that is an idea whose time has come.’
Victor Hugo
PROLOGUE
Israel. February 1991
Utter conviction was the Englishman’s only luggage.
He sat in silence on the lumpy seat in the back of the lurching Mercedes taxi that smelled of greasy vinyl and old cigarette butts, immersed in his thoughts.
Alpha and Omega. The words repeated like an old tune in his head he could not shake free.
I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.
Yahweh.
Not any more you bastard, he mouthed silently.
The air conditioning was not working. He stared out of the open window at scenery that had looked much the same for the past hour. Hot, arid air riffled his hair. A plastic thermometer stuck to the dash registered close on 120°; every few moments there was an irritating ‘ping’ as a Star of David suspended from the interior mirror struck it.
Occasionally he noticed the smells of the desert outside; mostly a milky sweetness soured by occasional sharp tangs of salt. They passed through a village, through a stench of sewage, then thick sweet smells of grilling meats and roasting nuts. A child waved at them, but he did not wave back.
I met a traveller from an antique land.
Shelley, he thought. Ah yes, Shelley. He understood. Shelley, Byron; they knew the secret, they had tried to share it, tried to live it.
Sometimes,
The Devil is a gentleman.
He smiled.
Twenty minutes later the taxi halted abruptly. ‘You walk from here,’ the driver said. ‘No good, the road.’
But to the Englishman the road looked no worse ahead than it did behind: still a scar in the sand, fly-blown, strewn with boulders and loose stones, shimmering in the heat.
He paid the driver: ‘Half now and half when I come back.’
The driver was staring at the mountains at the end of the scar with frightened eyes. ‘Come back,’ he said as if it were an echo. ‘Tomorrow. Ten o’clock I waiting here.’ He already had the Mercedes in gear and was gunning the engine.
Then the Englishman was alone under the metallic blue sky with the drifting plume of the taxi’s dust. He shivered, feeling just a fleeting doubt as he stared across the pink, yellow and cream hues of the desert sand, strewn with the occasional oil drum from past wars.
He had travelled three thousand miles by aeroplane and by taxi. Now he had the hard part ahead, the walk on foot alone to the end of the journey. And to a new beginning.
He felt suddenly awed by the power he had come to meet, and he knew that the taxi driver had felt so also; knew that was why he had refused to go further. This was a land where history held the evidence for legends, where the proof sought by the rest of the world still lay locked away, where a secret could remain untouched in the mountains for centuries. For millennia. Or could be lost for ever like the Clavicle of Solomon. And had been.
He put his hat on, shouldered his small bag and began walking. He carried no map but he knew where he was going, did not even need the track that stretched out beyond his shadow in front of him. He knew, because something was drawing him forward like a magnet. Drawing him to his destiny. Towards the closest-kept secret in the world. His time had come and he was prepared.
The wind brushed against his face, like a sign.
He walked due west. Thoughts came to him, tumbled into his mind, jostled for space. The hailing frequency had been opened and he was here to listen, to be instructed; to receive. To receive the gift that was above all others. Moses had led the children of Israel through this desert. Now he too was being led through this same desert, walking in time’s footsteps, and soon he would be standing on the shoulders of a giant. The Sermon on the Mount had been delivered on one of the slopes that lay ahead. The history of Christianity belonged in the granules of sand that coated the terrain.
Silicon came from sand. From two bits of dust came the Big Bang – all Creation. From a few grains of sand came the silicon chip. Chemistry. Chemistry was everything. Now you could have a computer that was smaller than a grain of sand. And I will show you something different from either / Your shadow at morning striding behind you / Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; / I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
He walked for two hours at an unfaltering pace, passing several flocks of sheep and goats tended by Bedouins in tatty black and white robes, preparing himself all the time, the way he had been taught. Opening up the channels. Sweat sloughed off him, drenching his white silk shirt, gluing it to his skin, spreading dark stains under the arms of his linen jacket. He always wore a suit and tie and it had not occurred to him to wear anything less now. A camel train moved across the horizon like a mirage, but his inner concentration was such that he barely noticed it.
The Alpha and the Omega, he thought. The words repeated in his head like a mantra as he walked. The Alpha and the Omega. He smiled; it gave him strength, warded off the fear that he still felt with every step that it could go wrong, so terribly wrong. It had been known to go wrong before. He paused to drink from the water bottle he carried in his bag, then walked on.
The mountains were closer now. He could see the sheer faces of sandstone rising into the sky like shadows, and could feel in his bones the inky darkness of the cave that was steadily reeling him in. But he had no fear now, only a growing elation. Above him, a lone hawk cruised high overhead, and somewhere else in the sky an unseen bird cried a single low call that reminded him of a gull.
The sun was beginning to sink down towards the peaks, lengthening his shadow ahead of him, and he felt tired for the first time as he started the climb. There was no track now, no signposts or markers, no hint that man had ever been here before, just the ever-steepening wall of rock that was both rising above him and dropping beneath him into the valley.
Then finally as he continued his long traverse, he saw a figure above him, sitting motionless like a statue. Standing silently beside it, he could make out the tethered goat. They were here; he had come to the right place; he chided himself for having had momentary doubts, then his pace quickened with a new energy.
He walked along a narrow ledge, the mountain dropping sheer away to his left; the wind came out of the darkness of the cave to greet him: dank, cold air. The seated man did not move as he approached, did not turn his head but just stared ahead into the narrow entrance of the cave that stretched back miles into pitch blackness, as motionless as the wooden stake beside him to which his goat was tethered.
Dressed in a dirty white jellaba, the goatherd was skeletally thin, with the Semitic features of the region that could have passed him for a Jew or a Palestinian. His small dark eyes were glazed and devoid of all expression.
The Englishman eyed the goatherd carefully. He was about twenty; personally he would have chosen someone a bit younger and stronger, but he would do, he supposed; anyone in their prime would do. He walked on past him into the darkness of the cave itself, without acknowledging him.
In the dim edges of light he could see the pentacle carved as finely as a tomb into the floor, and the ornate stone chair that stood like a throne in its midst. He put his bag on the floor then sat in the chair as he had been told, folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and meditated for an hour.
As he opened his eyes again, the first rays of the
setting sun came through the opening in the five-sided lodestone that hung beneath the roof of the cave. Minutes later the whole orb of the sun was visible, dazzling, but the Englishman stared at it, imposing his will against it, and remained silent.
The sun slid directly down behind the back of the goatherd, until it seemed that he had absorbed all its light and the Englishman could see nothing but his shimmering silhouette against the sky. Then darkness came rapidly outside.
The Englishman waited patiently as if all time had stopped for him, waited until the signal came into his mind, then he began to speak the words of the incantation he had been learning, rehearsing and reciting every day for ten years.
They were behind him, somewhere, in the darkness. He had not seen them and they made no sound but he knew they were there, all of them standing in their ordained positions, except for the old man who would be lying on the stretcher on which they had carried him. After two hours he finished the incantation. The last echoes of his words died.
Now he had to wait again.
All time was really suspended now. All time was his. The Englishman could see and hear nothing; he stared ahead blindly, dimly aware of the chill air numbing his body. He felt more calm than he had ever been before in his whole life. More ready. It was coming and it would be here soon.
The first signal came from the goat. A tentative bleat, then another, more insistent. He heard a hoof shuffle on the stone floor, then a stamp, the rope of the tether creaking against the stake. Then more bleats, rising fear.
The first icy tongues of wind licked the Englishman’s face hungrily, teased his hair, ruffled his clothes. They came in fast, unannounced, strengthening in intensity every second, getting colder, rougher, pushing him around on his chair, buffeting him.
He heard a rumble like an approaching tube train, followed by a faint tremor. Now! It was coming now. Travelling across all time to meet him. It was an appointment he had always known, from the day he was born, that he would one day keep. Here it was!
‘Ayaaaaaayaaaaaaa!’ The goatherd’s cry of terror rang out and was swept away in the vortex of wind that exploded like a bomb inside the cave.
The Englishman was catapulted from his chair, hurtled across the floor and slammed into a wall. Wind screamed around him, pressed on his ears as if it were going to shatter his drums, implode his head; for a moment his faith left him and he tried to blot out the pain, bit his tongue to prevent himself from screaming out loud.