The Sons of Adam: The sequel of The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 2) (12 page)

I was glad to hear it and it slowed down the countdown I had in my head slightly. I wouldn't have to lose two days on transatlantic flights to go to the Kronon Corporation headquarters in San Francisco, just a couple of hours to the French capital.

Despite the fact that winter was harsh on the region that year, that morning a bright white sun was warming the bridges and lampposts of Paris.

I had arranged to meet Pilkington in a discreet café that I knew well. The first floor had a VIP area with deep red and gold cushions for those customers looking for some privacy. Most used it for reasons less scientific than ours, but I knew that Pilkington would also appreciate it.

I climbed the stairs of the Procope café, gave the waiter an over-generous tip to make sure that nobody disturbed us for any reason whatsoever, and sat on the plump sofa to wait for my confidant.

Minutes later the door opened, but Pilkington wasn't alone. He was with a young woman. A brunette executive, whose face I couldn't see properly until she sat down in front of me.

It's impossible.

That's the only thing I could think when I saw her.

It's impossible.

              "My dear Wistan. I do hope that you will forgive our delay, the plane sufferred more turbulence than you can imagine. We just got in to Paris and we haven't even been to the hotel yet to leave our luggage. We left it with the waiter. I trust that there's no problem..."

I wasn't listening to him, I was just looking at her. And she was looking at me.

Is it you? Is it really you?

"And forgive me for not having told you that I wasn't coming alone. This is Marion Adamson, my superior at the Kronon Corporation. She's in charge of supervising my work and she is the highest authority within the company when it comes to telomerase behavior. She knew at the time about your first visit in relation to the Hooke Awards."

I stood up, with all the strength I could muster, and held out my hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Marion."

"Likewise, my dear Wistan."

She looked into my eyes and held my gaze for quite some time. Was she as taken aback as I was?

I studied her face, and found that she was waiting to see my reaction.

Was Marion Adamson a descendant of Manon Adams, the wife I had in the 17th century in New England, who died in that epidemic, the one our son buried behind the farm on the hill in Duxbury?

What if it wasn't her, what if she was an identical great-great-granddaughter?

My mouth had gone dry so I took a sip of the exclusive coffee the waiter had left, and cleared my throat, uncomfortably.

I forced myself to take control of the conversation and carry on with the plan that I had formed earlier, without getting carried away by that... that surprise.

"As you know, Mr. Pilkington, at this time I am deliberating about which institutions to put forward as candidates for the Hooke Awards. Well, as I told you last year, the discoveries of the corporation you represent did not seem to me to be the most suitable for the winning profile, but I must say that once I took a good look at the material you kindly gave me, I changed my mind."

Pilkington, who had been listening to me rather on edge, leaned back against the soft armchair in front of me, looking much more relaxed.

How much does your boss know?
I asked him with a look. He silently responded that discretion was required.

"I'm so glad to hear that," he said. "The truth is that you seemed somewhat reluctant to have faith in our line of research, but as I'm sure you've seen over the last year, studies on aging are become an increasingly higher priority for governments and pharmaceuticals, in both Europe and in the States."

"I am aware of that, which is why I wanted to hear your latest findings about telomerase behavior. You see, I find the idea of inhibiting the telomerase as interesting as re-activating it. Has any progress been made in that direction?"

I glanced at the supposed Marion out of the corner of my eye. I saw her grimace slightly upon hearing my words. Just slightly, but enough to know that she was intrigued.

Pilkington looked at her as well, seeking permission to say one thing or another.

She discreetly nodded her head.

"It's true that this year we have focused on the behavior of telomerase," he paused and looked at her again before going on.

"You see, before going any further," Marion interrupted, "and sharing more confidential material with you, maybe we should reach some kind of prearrangement with regard to what the granting of this award actually means."

"I think that you know that promising an award of these characteristics before a jury makes a decision, in addition to impossible, is also illegal," I replied.

"I wasn't referring to a pre-contract in the legal sense, but rather a commitment from you that our proposal will be given particular interest by the members of the jury." Her voice was like silk. She was doing some tough negotiating, but her voice was like silk.

Nineteen days
, I reminded myself.
Act fast and then pick up the pieces later.

"I can promise you that," I answered, after thinking for a moment. "But I have some very tight deadlines. I'm aware that I'm asking a lot, but it would be helpful if you could send me all those studies tonight."

Pilkington gulped.

"Tonight?" he repeated. "I'm afraid that we have a very tight schedule for this trip. I'm sure you can imagine the number of meetings we have set up with possible European associates over the next few days."

"Not a problem," Marion interrupted, stirring her basil sorbet. "Tell me the name of your hotel and I'll personally deliver the material."

"Perfect," I agreed. "As soon as we've finished the meeting I'll give you the address."

The truth is that I hadn't made any reservations to stay in a hotel. My plan was to go back to Santander that same night so as not to lose any more of the precious time I had left. But seeing that woman, the spitting image of my wife who died four centuries ago, had thrown my plans off track.

An awkward silence followed that none of us knew very well how to fill.

"Doctor Adamson is American," Pilkington said in the end, "although she mentioned that she has European roots, isn't that right?"

"English and Dutch," said Marion, without taking her eyes off me.

"You wouldn't be one of the descendants of the famous Mayflower, would you?" I asked.

She laughed and leaned back into the sofa.

"I'm aware that all my compatriots claim to be descendants of those Puritans, but in my case it's actually true. My family tree is well documented."

"Was there an Adamson on the Mayflower?" I challenged. "I believe that there was an Adams on the list, but I don't recall an Adamson."

Pilkington looked at me in surprise.

"Are you familiar with the famous list of the passengers on the Mayflower? I didn't know that you were into American history, you really are a box of surprises, Mr. Zeidan."

"I have always been fascinated with the story of the survivors from the Plymouth colony. Those first winters must have been very hard, terrible... The cold, the hunger..."

"The epidemics," added Marion, finishing off her sorbet.

Or was it Manon?

"Do you know the area?" she asked. "Have you ever been to Massachusetts?"

"Yes, I admit that I have made several visits over the years. It never fails to impress me. And not just the reconstructed 20th century version of the town of Plymouth, I must add. Do you know Pilgrim Hall, the oldest Museum of the Pilgrim Fathers in the United States?"

"I do, yes."

"I'm fascinated with some of the objects in those showcases," I muttered.

Just how far was she willing to go? How much did that woman know about me?

"Constance Hopkin's beaver skin hat, Susana White's crib, may they rest in peace," she added. "There's a very curious piece there as well, almost out of place, given the origins of the Pilgrim Fathers: a Spanish knife."

"Yes, from Toledo," I said, clenching my teeth. I left my knife at the farm, along with many of my belongings which I didn't think would survive the fire I lit.

"That's right. From Toledo, Spain," Marion pushed. "They must have been famous back then due to their beautiful engravings, don't you agree?  I've always wondered the story that could be behind such a simple object, the story that its owner could tell us. Don't you think, Pilkington?"

"Yes, indeed, Doctor Adamson. Indeed. More sorbet?" he asked.

It wasn't until I heard Pilkington's voice that I remembered he was still there. I was barely aware of his presence in the room. Our mute guest looked at us, not understanding what was going on. How could he even begin to imagine what was happening? Just how truly amazing it was that two longevos who had loved each other so much four centuries earlier were now together again in a café in Paris.

Is that what was happening here? Was Marion Adamson really Manon Adams, or just an imposer?

An old melody floated out from her elegant white Gucci jacket. That melody.... It was old, medieval. I used to hear it played in some of the fortresses in Languedoc, France. The old jesters would announce their presence with their flutes, playing those melancholic chords. Everyone in Christendom, which was how the land which is now Europe was known back then, knew it, it was like the Top Ten of best known songs. Bit by bit it fizzled out, and was no longer heard along the roads and in the castles. That generation of jesters died out, and the ones that followed rejected the songs of the elders.

But that memory made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the tastes of medieval sauces that I hadn't tried since came rushing back to me. Sensations that I will never experience again, such as the feel of a good Yorkshire fur on my sleeve. Others not so pleasant, such as the infamous nights spent on flee-infested straw mattresses, or the putrid stench of the latrines. Others sublime, such as the hips of so many women that I would never again ride, or Florentine perfumes with undertones that have since been lost.

Marion's voice, that exact mix of poise and sweetness in her words, brought me back to the 21st century. Or was it the 17th?

Pilkington and I listened closely to her phone conversation, in perfect French, with a colleague from the Kronon Corporation, and I knew that our strange meeting had come to an end.

"I'm afraid that we have other business to attend to," said Marion after hanging up.               "My dear Wistan, tonight, after we finish with all these meetings that are going to have me tied up all day, I'll stop by your hotel and give you those reports. How does that sound?"

I took my false business card out of my wallet with the name of a Wistan Zeidan who had never existed. I remembered that it was Lyra who had designed it and sent it to the printers, together with the other false material of that short-lived identity. I scribbled an address on the back and handed it to her.

"It's not a hotel," I whispered as she walked past me, dropping my front.               "It's one of my properties."

"Wait for me there," she said, pretending to kiss me goodbye on both cheeks, as the Spanish do. Don't go running off to sell beaver skins this time."

I felt dizzy and shut my eyes to regain my balance.

There was no doubt about it: that woman was Manon, my beloved wife.

16

The Mayflower list

IAGO

London, 1620 AD.

"I stole it from the Spanish ambassador in London," my father whispered, opening out the map. "But don't worry, I'm going to give it back."

"Are you mixed up in the whole spy game again? Is that what's keeping you in London?"

"Not exactly. Let me tell you about it. Pedro de Zúñiga, who was the Spanish ambassador until 1609, was set on telling King Phillip II of Spain to put an end to King James I's English company of founding colonies on the East cost of the New World. In fact, the first boat from the Plymouth Company, the Richard, set sail from England in August 1606, but it was intercepted and captured by the Spanish close to Florida in November. Although the next attempt was more successful, at first. Two boats set sail, the Gift of God and the Mary and John, which reached the Kennebec River in August 1607, and they built what you can see here in this document. Pedro de Zúñiga got hold of this map and he sent it as proof to Philip II. I managed to quickly falsify a copy, which is now in certain archives in Madrid, although I'll go back one day to replace the original."

I picked up a candle and held it close to the drawing. I couldn't understand my father's interest. I saw a star shaped building, internal constructions, a storeroom, a barn... I didn't want to know anything about defensive buildings. Or maybe everything still reminded me of Kinsale.

"It's a fort," said my father. "The Fort St. George, in the colony of Popham. It was financed by the Virginia Company of Plymouth in 1607, on the other side of the ocean. A year later it was abandoned. Ever since, the company has been inactive."