Revelation

21 Revelation Island

Findhorn, in a strange city, was nervous of wandering Washington's streets after dark; but neither did a late night stay in Dallas airport terminal promise an evening of fun and sparkle. With about eight hours before the Athens flight, he booked into the Hilton on the grounds that if he was going to go bust he might as well do it in style. In a hotel room the likes of which he had seen only in movies, he plugged in his laptop. There was a lot of junk mail, and a message from Romella.

Fred — Something has turned up. Cancel your Greek trip and meet me tomorrow. I'll be in the Holiday Inn in San Diego. Confirm receipt of this message immediately. Romella.

He frowned, ran a Jacuzzi for two, undressed, re-read the message and then slipped into the churning water. He wondered why she wasn't staying with her parents in La Jolla, which was practically a suburb of Dan Diego. After half an hour of troubled thought and underwater pummelling, he walked dripping to the telephone and called the Holiday Inn, San Diego. A room had been reserved for a Ms Grigoryan, for the following evening. He replugged his computer, carried it to the tub and balanced it precariously on the edge, and typed:

I've cancelled Athens. Arriving San Diego late tomorrow. Fred.

He pressed return and lay back. He tried to let the warm jets relax his muscles but disturbing thoughts forbade it. Then he typed 'foo', followed by 'iXdKK1s!!' The Glasgow computers were protected from the outside world by impenetrable firewalls; but Findhorn was now inside that world. In every direction there was still a mass of forbidding gateways; but Archie had always been careless. Findhorn typed 'cd home/amk/mail', entering Archie's electronic mailbox and feeling like a thief. He changed to the inbox directory, the store for messages which Archie had received. The most recent of these had arrived only half an hour ago. It said:

I've cancelled Athens. Arriving San Diego late tomorrow. Fred.

He skimmed through Archie's e-mails of the last few days, feeling sick and betrayed.

It was still dark but Findhorn was hit at the aircraft door by warm, perfumed Mediterranean air. Athens airport seemed to be one vast dormitory for backpackers. The old hands had found quiet corners and were stretched out unconscious in sleeping bags; others, in varying degrees of comatoseness, were propped up against walls or check-in desks, holding paper cups or cigarettes.

Findhorn caught a bus which rattled him and half a dozen sleepy travellers rapidly into the city centre. He recognized the Acropolis on a hilltop, ghostly in the predawn light. Venus blazed down in a dark blue sky, but dawn was breaking rapidly, and by the time he had navigated his way to the railway station it was daylight. Surprisingly at this hour, the platform was choc-a-bloc, and when the train arrived Findhorn was swept on board in something like a rugby scrum. He found himself squeezed between a young, hairy German and his ferociously fit girlfriend, wearing identical T-shirts and shorts. There was no question of reaching his reserved seat and he watched the flat-roofed white houses of the Athens suburbs trundle past, giving way to open countryside, until a ticket inspector looked at his ticket, shook his head, gabbled something, and put him off at a level crossing in the middle of a flat expanse of parched vineyards.

Findhorn watched the train disappear over the horizon.

The sun was getting hot.

And every minute he stood on the track was a minute gained by the opposition.

After an hour of increasing frustration a large car with dark-tinted windows stopped at the crossing and disgorged a small, stout man carrying a shopping bag, with a jacket draped over his arm. The car took off. The man looked at Findhorn curiously and said something incomprehensible. Findhorn, unsure what to expect, said good morning. They stood in silence, waiting. In ten minutes another car stopped and disgorged a little fat woman, and then there was a steady trickle of cars and vans, and at last a train approached on the horizon and Findhorn once again found himself bundled uncomprehendingly on board, wondering if his non-appearance at San Diego had yet registered and, if so, what the enemy would be doing about it.

This train was almost empty, and it was excruciatingly slow. The sun was intense through the carriage window. Glancing out at one point, Findhorn was surprised to find himself looking down the funnel of a ship: they were on a narrow bridge over the Gulf of Corinth, linking mainland Greece to the Peloponnese peninsula. Past Corinth, the train ambled along the most spectacular coastline Findhorn had ever seen, bounded by cliffs on the left and a turquoise sea on the right. By the time the train trundled into a station called IIATRA, it was noon and Findhorn was headachey and sticky.

He wandered randomly, followed awhile by a scraggy black mongrel which appeared from a cloistered walkway and trotted behind him before being distracted by a smell in an alleyway. He found himself in a spacious square with slender palm trees, a sundial, and a scattering of tavernas and pastry shops. A few deep-wrinkled locals watched him curiously over tumblers of white wine. He tried 'University' in three languages and got a fair amount of gabble but no directions. He wandered through the swing doors of a hotel and tried out the three languages again on a cheerful, dark-eyed girl and she finally drew a map and waved her hands expressively.

Half an hour later he saw the low, white buildings of the university on a distant hill, beyond the edge of town. Across the campus and into a cavernous atrium; a hooknosed, dark youth who steered Findhorn towards the physics faculty office; a rotund woman with a hint of a moustache with enough English to say that Professor Papagianopoulos is away; a two-day conference on the subject of Space, Time and Vacuum; on the island of Patmos; in the Cyclades, a good distance away. Go back to Athens and fly to the island of Kos and then take the ferry to the sacred island; the sail takes four hours and at the time of year the sea can be rough; the conference is for registered participants only; you are most welcome.

Screaming internally with frustration, Findhorn managed to organize a taxi to the bus station, and an air-conditioned bus had him back in Athens by mid-afternoon. To his surprise he found that his credit card was still good for a flight to Kos. The sun had meantime vanished behind grey, drizzly clouds. There was a long, slow swell which had the ferry yawing from side to side. It was infinitely less fearsome than his icebreaker experience of a week ago, but something in his ear seemed to be in resonance with the sway. At least the ferry was quiet and he was able to retch quietly in the lavatory without frightening the passengers.

Four hours later, the engine note changed and the heaving moderated. Findhorn, feeling like death, half-crawled up the ferry stairs to find that the ship was sailing into a calm harbour under a thundery sky. The water was reflecting the lights of a village, and a massive fortress monastery crowned the hill behind it.

Findhorn now staggered past fish taverns, cafes and tourist shops, most of them shuttered and closed. He found himself wandering up steep little alleys with tiny churches, grand mansions and dazzling white cubic houses clustered around the Monastery of St John. He had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. There was a sudden heavy downpour of rain but he was past caring. Here and there he would cross a little square opening into a stunning view over the Aegean.

There was a two-storeyed villa, with a sign on the wrought-iron gate which might have meant rooms to let. Exhausted, wet and despairing, he pressed the bell and waited. A female voice on the intercom said something incomprehensible, and he said, 'I want to rent a room.' The gate opened with a click, and he walked into a small courtyard decorated with ferns and small trees. A woman looked down from a verandah. She was in her mid-thirties and wearing a plain blue dress, and she waved him in with a smile.

Dripping wet, he entered a well-equipped kitchen stuffed with Chinamen. Three were clustered round pots steaming on a cooker, two were setting a table and a sixth, an older man, was sitting on a kitchen chair, balancing it on two legs while drinking red wine straight from a bottle. There was a flurry of greetings. The eldest man paused, his mouth at the bottle. He stood up, smiled, bowed politely, and said in a deep voice and excellent English, 'Are you here for the conference?'

The Chinese delegation seemed to know where they were going, and Findhorn drifted with them through the narrow wet alleyways. In a square no larger than a tennis court, they drifted into a small hotel. A notice on an easel said Space, Time and Vacuum. A buzz of conversation was coming from the left and Findhorn wandered into a room with about thirty people, mostly male, milling around. A glance told him the story: the suit count was low, the beard count was high. This was an academic conference. An array of name badges was laid out on a long table and a couple of women were taking bundles of notes, ticking names off against a list and handing out the badges. There was a crowd around a third woman in a corner, who was checking name badges and handing over small blue rucksacks from a heap.

Without rucksack and name badge, Findhorn knew, he might as well have the word 'Intruder' branded on his forehead. In a dining room beyond the registration desk, tables were layed out with glasses of wine and plates with canapes, cheese and tomatoes. He wandered into this room and picked up a glass of white wine. The room was buzzing but he caught only snatches of conversation. He drifted, trying to look inconspicuous as he checked name badges. He spotted the name Aristotle Papagionopoulos from about ten yards, across a temporarily clear stretch of room. Aristotle's head was thrust forward, and he was listening intensely to a bald, bespectacled Englishman. His face was wrinkled; intense brown eyes spoke of a fanatical intelligence but, at the same time, a certain dissociation from the real world. Findhorn, not knowing what he would say to the man, gently pushed his way forwards, mentally bracing himself for the Ari Papa experience.

'Good evening, Doctor Findhorn.'

Findhorn turns, spills wine. The Revelation Man, Mister Mons Meg himself. Archie is at his side, wearing a white linen suit with the jacket over his arm. There is sweat under Archie's armpits and his bearded face is red with astonishment, dismay and consternation.

The expression on the Revelation Man's face, on the other hand, is approaching beatitude. 'And welcome to Patmos. This tiny island has been called the Jerusalem of the Aegean. If God spares you the time, you should enter through the walls which protect the Monastery, and see its extraordinary treasures: Byzantine icons, sacred vessels, frescoes over eight hundred years old, embroideries over a thousand. There are wonderful illuminated manuscripts and rare books.'

'Any old diaries?' Findhorn's voice is shaky.

Mr Revelation laughs. 'Patmos is where Saint John the Theologian, under divine inspiration, wrote his Book of Revelation. Is this not, then, the most fitting place on earth to contemplate John's vision of the Apocalypse?'

Findhorn takes a fresh look at the conference attendees. The biblical vision springing to his mind is Daniel in the lion's den.