Alchemist Read online

  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 th
is 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 t
he 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.