Cover picture: Immortal Love, (also known as “The sons of God Saw the Daughters of Men, That They Were Fair,” a sculpture by Daniel Chester French. Picture used by permission of Lee Sandstead. www.Sandstead.com
THE NEPHILIM FORMULA
This novel, first published in 2009
© Ron Simpson 2009
Smashwords Edition
Ron Simpson asserts his right to be identified as the author of this work.
Author’s note:
All the characters potrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination and bear no relationship to any living person.
THE NEPHILIM FORMULA
A novel by Ron Simpson.
(email: ron_the_westie@ihug.co.nz)
18/4/2009
© Ron Simpson 2009
CHAPTER 1.
The phone warbled in the sumptuous offices of Reggie Riffkin Private Investigations Ltd. Equally sumptuous was the very expensive, tailored Saville Row suit that Reggie was wearing. He was awaiting the arrival back in the office of Sally, his assistant and office help, and was impatient to be out of the office and on his way to an appointment with an important client in half an hour.
"Riffkin Investigations," he said, "Reggie Riffkin speaking." He listened and then said, "I'll just check when we can do that job Mrs. Postlewaight. We're very busy just now. Ummm, it'll be the fourteenth before we can look at that, I'm sorry about that. Yes, Pete Perry, he's an adequate investigator, try him. OK, goodbye."
He sighed heavily. The phone hadn't stopped ringing all morning and he wanted to get out of the office. Where on earth was Sally!
There was a knock at the door. Oh no! Who could this be?
"Come on in," he called.
The door opened and in walked the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Maybe thirty-five years old, the hair that leaked out from under the headscarf she was wearing was blonde, her walk was sexy and elegant, perfect legs, and from what he could tell, under her coat was a very voluptuous body. When she spoke, her voice was a little husky and very seductive.
"Monsieur Riffkin?" she enquired.
Reggie's appointment was forgotten. Now he was hoping that Sally had a flat tyre and would be another hour yet.
"Yes," he replied, his throat feeling somewhat dry. He tried to make his voice as deep and desirable as possible.
The woman removed her headscarf and coat, and draped them across the back of the luxurious lounge suite that graced Reggie's plush offices. The removal of these garments revealed to Reggie's astonished eyes, a pair of enormous....
The phone rang again! Drat! He dealt with the call quickly. Now where was he...?
Oh yes, that pair of enormous earrings. He'd never seen anything like them. Couldn't really be diamonds could they?
"My name, Monsieur Riffkin, is Fifi L'amour." The accent was definitely the most French he'd ever heard. She approached his football field-sized solid teak desk, placed her hands on its surface, and leaned towards him, revealing to his even more astonished eyes....
Again the phone! When he'd disposed of the call, she was still leaning towards him, still revealing those magnificent diamonds in a diamond studded necklace.
“Monsieur Riffkin, I desperately need your 'elp and protection," she murmured huskily. "I need you to come and live in my mansion in Provence with me, and protect me twenty-four hours a day. I will pay you 'andsomely Mr. Riffkin, and there will be many fringe benefits, such as..."
The phone trilled again. Reggie gave a start and rubbed his eyes. This time the call was real. Oh, for goodness' sake! He'd been dreaming again.
He picked up the phone and listened. "No madam," he barked, "this is not the Upper Lowersbury home for orphaned puppies and kittens."
He slammed down the receiver and then looked around him. The plush surroundings had vanished. He was in the same shabby low-rent office that he'd been forced to move to when business became slack. He surveyed his suit. Gone was the immaculately tailored suit worth several thousand pounds, and in its place was a rather shabby specimen which looked as though it had been stolen from a museum.
No chance of dreaming again now, he was awake and completely disgruntled. Why was that dream always interrupted just when it was getting interesting? He still had absolutely no idea of what the fringe benefits were.
Reggie recommenced his usual daytime activity, previously interrupted by his dream, namely, sitting at his very battered desk, firing wads of rolled up notepaper into an equally battered wastepaper basket. His aim was now almost perfect, even when the basket was at its furthermost point from the desk. Well, I've had plenty of practice over the last few months, he thought ruefully. Why was business suddenly slack lately? Did nobody require the services of an experienced Private Investigator these days? He considered himself to be as good as any, and better than a lot, and in fact he had always received compliments about his standard of work. Even an old-fashioned, boring surveillance job on an office worker suspected of stealing corporate ball pens would be welcome.
"How the mighty have fallen," he muttered to himself.
Well, perhaps mighty was pushing it a bit, but up until a few months ago he'd had sufficient business to keep himself and his assistant busy every day, and also the luxury of turning down less profitable or potentially messy jobs. Now Sally, his assistant was off the payroll, cooling her heels at home, looking after her cat, (which was expanding in the waistline as a result of the extra attention) and trying to find another job while he spent most days in the office honing his paper throwing skills, or out on the streets trying to sniff out potential clients. The occasional suspected unfaithful husband or wife case cropped up, but not enough business to keep him in the manner in which he would like to become accustomed.
He'd followed a common path to a PI job. Twenty-five years in the police force, and the usual disillusionment when he was constantly passed over for promotion, and found he was spending most of his time filling in forms and watching criminals and thugs walk out of court free men on dubious technicalities, under the adoring eyes of judges whom he suspected would prefer to lock up the victims in order to keep them safe from the criminals they had exonerated and who were roaming unimpeded in the community.
One day after a particularly blatant case of an obviously guilty and nasty drug-pusher walking from the court a free man on a technicality, he wrote his letter of resignation, rented a small upstairs office, hunted for and found a good reliable assistant and became Reggie Riffkin, Private Investigator. For about eighteen months, business had been fairly brisk, Then, a few months ago, the business started to dry up. There was a bit more competition nowadays, but there still should be enough business for all. Maybe I'm too old, he ruminated. My hair's going grey, maybe I should knock a few years off my appearance by having it coloured. He dismissed the thought instantly. I have the experience, that's the important thing. There must be another reason for it!
He didn't really have the cash to advertise more than weekly in the local newspaper, and the Nationals were just too expensive to contemplate. He'd tried it a few times in the past when he was a bit more affluent, and the results had been disappointing. Cash was tight just now. No, he couldn't afford to increase advertising expenditure. A man had to keep a little cash for the odd drink after all. But what was the alternative?
I can hold on a few more weeks, he decided, then I'll give it up and try for a job as a security guard somewhere in town. What's the time? He glanced at his watch. 3.05 p.m. Not much point in hanging around here any longer today. Might as well go and have a drink now before I go home. He picked up his coat, put it on, then locked the office and headed down the old wooden staircase, which led down to the street.
Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs and was about to open the door to emerge onto the street between the hairdresser's and the Indian takeaway (from which delectable aromas arose all day), a diminutive figure wrapped in coats, scarves and other garments, looking somewhat like an Egyptian mummy, started to open the door from the street. Reggie stood aside to allow the figure to enter the door.
"Can I help you?" Reggie enquired, when the mummy was inside.
"Would you perchance be Reginald Riffkin, whose name adorns the portal through which I have just passed?" enquired a quiet and somewhat cultured male voice from deep within the clothing.
"Yes, I'm Reggie Riffkin." admitted Reggie.
"You are going out now on urgent client business?"
Reggie reflected that he was definitely a regular client of the bar, and the need for a drink was fairly urgent, so he replied, "Yes, I was, but it can wait if you want to see me now."
"Yes," replied the man, "I would very much like to consult with you now. I have a situation which is of very great interest to me, but alas I am not a young man any more, and my ability and desire to travel internationally has abated along with my youth, hence my need to consult with someone of your profession."
This is going to be hard work, thought Reggie. This guy doesn't seem to be able to speak plain English. Abated and portal, for goodness' sake!
"OK, let's go up to my office. Follow me, and mind your step, it's a bit dark in this stairway because the bulb has blown and I don't have a long enough ladder to change it."
"It would be my inestimable pleasure to beard you in your den, in a manner of speaking, Of course I will exercise the utmost care in ascending these stairs, in accordance with your considerate and timely warning," came the reply. "I can see that it would be a time-consuming and inconvenient measure to obtain a sufficiently long ladder. Much more preferable to have just a few broken limbs and other assorted injuries until a lengthy enough ladder miraculously appears some day, or the light bulb sees fit to replace itself with a working example."
I think I detect some irony there, thought Reggie. What have I done to deserve this? But I guess that beggars can't be choosers. Nothing to lose by talking to him, except half an hour of valuable drinking time.
They entered Reggie's somewhat shabby office. The figure began to unwrap itself from its collection of sartorial items, until eventually a roughly humanoid object could be discerned, rather like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Or rather, in this case, a fairly drab moth. The figure which sank into the best of the two clients' chairs, (the one with the least amount of horsehair sticking out of the holes in the fabric), was not prepossessing.
Reggie appraised him with his somewhat jaundiced ex-policeman's eye. About 75 years old. Hair grey and thinning. Very small-boned, maybe 5 feet 3 inches tall. (Reggie still calculated height in feet and inches). Probably shrinking a little every year as is wont to happen to the elderly. If he lives another ten years, he'll probably end up about four feet tall. Very bright clear eyes however, and an intelligent look on the somewhat wrinkled face. There were no laughter lines around the eyes, always a bad sign. A fairly small nose, thin lips, and average chin. You wouldn't look at him twice on the street unless you happened to trip over him.
But the clothes that remained on his small frame were obviously expensive, as were the layers he had shed and which were now draped over the back of the other client chair.
In turn the client examined Reggie closely. He saw before him a man of around fifty years of age wearing a suit that wasn't even up to the standard of the one worn by the scarecrow in his large back garden. Hair greying.
The face was slightly plump, as was the rest of his body, but not fat. A few wrinkles starting to make their appearance on his face. Eyes a nondescript grey-green colour, slightly larger nose than average, with a certain amount of reddening beginning to develop on it. Either rosacea or an affinity for the more than occasional tipple, thought the client. He suspected that the tipple theory was the more likely, as he himself was familiar with the effects of serious tippling, and he was correct. A widish mouth and a ready smile, and a fairly standard issue jaw completed the picture.
An advantage that Reggie had enjoyed in the police force, and now in his PI work, was that he looked nothing like a policeman or PI. Most policemen might as well have 'POLICE' tattooed on their foreheads, even in plain clothes, and many PI's tend to be similarly afflicted with a certain look. Reggie looked more like an genial uncle than a policeman or PI. This had proved to be extremely useful on many occasions.
The client's inspection of Reggie was quick, but thorough. He then turned his attention to the office in which they sat. A slight wrinkling of the nose betrayed his lack of enthusiasm for his temporary surroundings.
"Perfect, Mr. Riffkin," he said after his examination was complete. "Nobody would suspect in a million years that I would even enter such premises, let alone consult with the denizen thereof. My enemies in particular would not expect that I would touch such an establishment with a forty foot pole."
Reggie felt a little resentment stirring in his breast. OK, so these weren't the most salubrious premises on the planet, and he wasn't the most dynamic PI in the solar system, but talk of touching, or not touching with forty foot poles hurt even a seasoned campaigner like him just a little.
"Please don't take umbrage Mr. Riffkin," continued his potential client. "I'm not casting aspersions on your ability. In fact I've done some checking and I'm confident that you're the man who can help me. A man with plenty of experience, ex-policeman, suffering from a lengthy lull in business, and keen to take a job that will prove to be lucrative, as your resources are shrinking rapidly. You're divorced and live alone, with no current girlfriend. The fact that your offices are somewhat lacking in splendour suits me perfectly, especially as this is the only time I will come here, and in fact the only time that we will see each other. Pray let me introduce myself. I am Horace Ponsonby. Perhaps my name is familiar to you, perhaps not. That is immaterial."
Reggie heard a very faint tinkle of a bell in his mind at the mention of the name. He'd definitely heard it before, and he seemed to associate it with vast wealth.
"I've heard your name," he said. "Can't quite place you in my mind yet. You seem to know a lot about me, are you sure you need a PI? You seem to have found out a lot without my help."
Horace Ponsonby waved a dismissive and bony hand. "As I said, it's immaterial if you know me or not. I have my own sources of information, it is true Mr. Riffkin, but for this job I need an independent and unknown person. I will reveal all in due course. I can assure you that I have the financial resources available to remunerate you handsomely for your toils on my behalf. Of course, I will pay your expenses, as well as a generous hourly rate. There will be plenty of money in this commission, should your efforts be coronated with success."
Coronated! thought Reggie. I'm sure there's no such word. He's just making it up to try to sound impressive.
"Before I give you more information, I would fain receive an indication from you as to your degree of interest in accepting my commission," said Horace.
"I'm very interested in any job that is not overly dangerous, or that involves breaking the law," Reggie responded. "Provided that the job you have for me won't bring me into conflict with the C.I.A., MI's 1 to 10, or Mossad, and subject to the emolument being satisfactory, I'm very likely to accept your commission."
"Emolument! Very erudite Mr. Riffkin. I can assure you that whatever sum of emolument you have in mind will be surpassed substantially, and should you bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, there will be a substantial bonus for you on top of your hourly fee. Does £100,000 sound like an adequate bonus, Mr. Riffkin?"
It did! Reggie's jaw almost hit the top of his desk. "Very generous, I'm sure Mr. Ponsonby. You have my complete attention."
"Very well Mr. Riffkin, now that we have cleared away the unsavoury topic of filthy lucre, we can get down to the business at hand."
The thought crossed Reggie's mind that the topic was far from unsavoury, and the lucre sounded to be positively sparkling with cleanliness, but he said nothing. If Horace thought his lucre was filthy, so much the better. Maybe he would want to get rid of it all.
Horace Ponsonby cleared his throat noisily. "I find my throat and oesophagus somewhat dry, Mr. Riffkin. Do you have a suitable lubricant available at hand that may ease this unfortunate drought? One of the hazards of old age, I'm afraid. The throat is likely to dry up completely without warning. I feel that before I continue, I need to rectify this sad state of affairs."
Reggie wondered if Horace was joking about this and looked for a twinkle in his eye as he made this piteous plea for relief from the ravages of unrelenting thirst, but there was no sign of one, and no indication that there had ever been one there in the entire course of his life.
"This is not just a hazard of old age Mr. Ponsonby," Reggie stated. "I suffer from a similar problem from time to time, and I'm a mere forty-eight years old. I think I can lay my hands on an almost full bottle of Scotch if that will do the trick for you."
"Were my personal physician present, that is exactly what he would prescribe," purred Mr. Ponsonby emphatically. "It has been proved beyond doubt by myself, with full support from my physician of course, that this is the only effective emergency remedy when this affliction strikes without warning. The remedy you suggest is extremely efficacious."
Reggie reflected as he walked the two paces to his filing cabinet, that a personal physician who refused to prescribe the remedy in question would have a very short tenure in Horace Ponsonby's employment. He opened the bottom drawer, and removed a three-quarters full bottle of Scotch and two not particularly clean glasses, and poured a generous amount into each.
"Water with yours?" Reggie enquired.
Horace recoiled as though Reggie had suggested adding a slug of cyanide to the glass.
"No thank you Mr. Riffkin," he said firmly. “Dilution with water is definitely contrary to my physician's advice, and extremely detrimental to my somewhat delicate constitution. But, if you would be so kind as to add some more Scotch in the space that you had reserved for water, I'm sure that the result will be very successful in treating my ailment.”
Reggie complied with this request. "To success," he said, and touched his glass to Horace's.
"Victory," grunted Horace, his voice already muffled by the glass. He downed the contents in one swallow. "What a magnificent flavour. I must remember to ask Snytherford not to be so fastidious about washing the glasses in future. I'm sure that's the best drop I ever tasted. I believe only two more and my throat and oesophagus will be fully restored to an acceptable moisture content."
Reggie obliged with two more refills, but it actually required three before Horace's throat and oesophagus were pronounced to be officially restored.
“That's perfect,” purred Horace when the lubrication process was complete. “Now Mr. Riffkin, to business. Almost all of my life, I have been an admirer of the ancients. I have studied this subject assiduously for more than fifty years. My knowledge on the topic is encyclopaedic, if I do say so myself. Are you familiar with those to whom I refer as the ancients, Mr. Riffkin?”
"Well, there's a ninety year old bloke lives a couple of doors from me," responded Reggie. "But I take it that you're referring to people who go back further than that."
Horace Ponsonby sighed deeply, rested his chin on his hands and almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes. "I'd be inestimably grateful if you would save your clumsy attempts at humour until you are conferring with someone whose sense of humour is equally rudimentary to your own, Mr. Riffkin."
"I'm sorry," said Reggie, "but ancient is a relative thing. To a five year old, I'm an ancient specimen at forty-eight. But are you referring perhaps to the Ancient Egyptians or Chaldeans or... who were they now? You know, the chaps who used to enjoy coming down like wolves on folds."
"I think you have the Assyrians in mind in the matter of wolves and folds," replied Horace. "They are indeed much closer to the mark than your ninety year old neighbour, Mr. Riffkin. But the true ancients go back even before those civilisations you referred to. Much closer to the beginning of recorded history. Are you familiar with the Book of Genesis in the Old Testament of the Bible?"
He paused, looking at Reggie expectantly, as if anticipating that he would deny any knowledge of the existence of such a book.
"Yes of course," Reggie responded. "I'm not a complete heathen you know. I served my time in Sunday School until I was expelled for tipping a bucket of manure over the vicar. It was intended for Fangs Roberts, a genuine pain in the anatomy, but the vicar was first to open the door, by one of those circumstances that you can't possibly plan for. Then after the expulsion, the Baptists down the road from my house got their hands on me for a couple of years and made me learn all the books of the Bible amongst other things. I can still recite them for you now if you like."
"That won't be necessary, thank you Mr. Riffkin," said Horace Ponsonby firmly. "I was simply wanting to ascertain that I was not talking to an individual who is in total ignorance of the matters we are discussing. However, I'm sure that your Sunday School coverage did not include the parts that particularly interest me. More along the lines of Cain slew Abel, and Noah and the Ark, I would imagine."
"Yes, I do remember being informed that Cain slew Abel," said Reggie. "I also recollect that Esau was an hairy man, but Jacob was an smooth man."
"Very droll, Mr. Riffkin." said Horace. "Your memory does not deceive you. Jacob was indeed an smooth man and Esau freakishly hairy. But fascinating as the topic of smoothness and hairiness may be, it is not relevant to our discussion either. Hairiness or smoothness plays no part in this matter. We tend to think," continued Horace, "that twentieth and twenty-first century man, namely ourselves, are more intelligent than the ancients, simply because our knowledge is greater. However, we have been building on the foundations of every generation before us, and my contention, based on many years of study, is that in fact, the ancients were vastly superior to ourselves in intelligence, and physical prowess. In Genesis Chapter 4, we read of Jubal, the founder of music, and as my research shows, the greatest musical genius who ever lived. His half-brother was named Tubal-cain, the first worker in brass and iron, and also a sculptor and a genius in his field, much more so than Michelangelo. However, the following verses explain why the ancients were superior. Genesis Chapter 6 verses 1,2 and 4.
'And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.... There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.'"
Horace paused to lick his lips, and for a moment Reggie thought that his throat and oesophagus had had another attack of terminal dryness, but nothing could stop Horace now. He sat forward on the edge of his chair and his eyes were piercing and bright.
"Who were these sons of God referred to in those verses, Mr. Riffkin? Did they apprise you of these verses in Sunday School?"
"Ummm no, I don't believe that I read those verses before," admitted Reggie. "Could they have been some sort of mythical creatures?"
Horace snorted in disgust. "No!" he exclaimed. "These sons of God were not mythical Mr. Riffkin. To prevent further embarrassment to you, I will not require you to speculate further on this topic. The sons of God referred to, were heavenly beings, Mr. Riffkin, or angels if you prefer. Their offspring are often referred to as the Nephilim and are the mighty men of old referred to in verse four. The great ancients were half angel and half human, and this explains why they were so superior in all ways to ourselves. We had the great geniuses I mentioned earlier, Mr. Riffkin, Jubal and Tubal-cain, but the introduction of angelic blood enhanced this great genius to unbelievable levels. Of course, we may not ever be able to recreate quite the level of incredible genius of those days, but the Nephilim will be far superior in physical and mental ability to the present population of the world."
"I didn't know that angels are able to... you know, thingummy, ah... breed, for want of a better word," said Reggie. "Particularly with humans. Maybe between each other, but I didn't know that... well, you know."
"Oh yes, most definitely," replied Horace. "They most definitely can thingummy with humans, Mr. Riffkin. The evidence is there in Genesis Chapter 6, in black and white. Of course, the 'sons' of God obviously cannot breed between each other Mr. Riffkin, as your knowledge of biology possibly will tell you, should you think about it. But your Sunday School teachers would be too embarrassed to discuss such matters, I'm sure."
"Correct, definitely off limits for discussion. But what if the human half wasn't particularly bright?" asked Reggie. "I've known some girls who are spectacular physically, but mentally it's a struggle for them to decide what to eat for breakfast. I was married to one of them for some years. From what you quoted it sounds like these angel fellows were after beauty first, brains second."
Horace glared icily at Reggie. "I assure you Mr. Riffkin," he said. "the sons of God were very choosy. They would not even look at a girl who struggled to produce her breakfast menu. Intelligence was just as important to them as beauty. Please do not strew red herrings upon this path. I dislike herrings Mr. Riffkin, especially red ones."
“But aren't their descendants still among us today? Maybe the more intelligent among us have some angel blood floating in their veins.”
"No, Mr. Riffkin," replied Horace. "That is the tragedy. The most intelligent and magnificent specimens of the Nephilim were destroyed in the flood. Every last one of them. We're all descendants of Noah, who, the evidence suggests, together with his family had no angelic blood at all. The lack of angel blood, or genes if you prefer, is one of the reasons for the parlous state of the world." He paused, and then continued. "There are some who quote the book of Numbers, Chapter 13, verses 31 to 33 to argue that the descendants of the Nephilim still lived on the earth after the flood. I quote,
'But the men that went up with him said, "We be not able to go up against the people; for they are stronger than we." And they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of Israel, saying, "The land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. And there we saw the giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight."'
"But in actual fact this statement was a lie, because the men were afraid to go into the land, and so they made up the story about the giants. The words 'evil report' can also be translated 'false report' or a lie and are indeed so translated in some Bible translations."
"There are also occasional mentions of giants in the Old Testament, such as Goliath, of whom I am sure you have heard, and in the book of Second Samuel Chapter 21 a few giants are mentioned, including one unfortunate enough to have been named Ishbibenob. Also a giant from Gath, with six fingers on each hand, and a similar number of toes on his feet, as well as a few others. These are mere aberrations, perhaps natural mutations, but in no way connected with the true intellectual and physical giants known as the Nephilim. Perhaps the giants of human mythology are derived from memories of the Nephilim. Some fairy stories featuring giants may have been derived from the same source."
Horace looked somewhat thirsty after this long speech, and emptied his glass in an attempt to preserve his throat and oesophagus from a further distressful dryness attack.
"Well, that's a shame," said Reggie. "I guess that's it then. Nothing can be done about it."
"On the contrary, Mr. Riffkin, something can be done about it, and something will be done about it and that is why I'm employing you. You will be the one to do something about this, and help restore the ancients to their rightful place in the world. Then when the super intelligent beings start to take control again as in the past, strife and wars will cease because their superior intelligence will see the futility of such things. The great leaps in knowledge will be used for the betterment of mankind, rather than its destruction."
"Me?" said Reggie doubtfully. "What can I do to bring the ancients back into being again?"
"You can do a great deal, Mr. Riffkin, and I will explain more to you."
Reggie refilled his glass, which was now empty, anticipating that he would be requiring some fortification. He was somewhat uneasy about the direction of the conversation.
"Ah, an admirable idea Mr. Riffkin," said Horace leaning forward and pushing his glass towards the Scotch bottle. "I do believe that I feel an attack of dryness coming on, and this may well prevent it from fastening me in its deadly jaws."
Reggie obliged by pouring another generous portion into Horace's glass.
"Wait a minute, though," he said, as a thought came to him. "Why do these angel fellers need help to come and marry the daughters of men? Surely if they spotted these daughters before, and decided that they were fair, why can't they just do the same again? Maybe the daughters of men just aren't up to scratch these days, and the sons of God aren't interested."
"No, Mr. Riffkin," replied Horace. "I know that the daughters of men are still considered to be extremely desirable by the sons of God, or rather, those of the daughters who can construct a sentence without using the word 'like' five times. There are of course, and always have been, hopeless cases amongst the daughters, as you yourself have apparently discovered. But it's a good question and a good point. I pondered the same puzzle myself for many years, but of course the question was somewhat more intellectually phrased. Extensive studies revealed to me, that at the time of the inundation, the 'angel fellers' as you so crudely phrase it, were banned from coming down to marry the daughters of men.”
“In fact, these angels seem to have been chained as a punishment according to the New Testament book of Jude, verses 6 and 7, which say,”
“‘And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day. Even as Sodom and Gomorrah and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh...’”
“Hence the human race began its downward spiral after this chaining or banning of the sons of God.”
"Banned by God, do you mean?" asked Reggie.
"Yes, if you want to call the Supreme Entity, God," responded Horace.
"Well," said Reggie. "Surely that's the end of the story. If God bans or even prevents something, it tends to carry some weight. Surely it stays banned. Do you want me to say, 'Sorry God, I know you banned this, but I know better so I'm going to ignore the ban?'"
The corners of Horace's mouth twitched, in what appeared to be the Ponsonbynian version of a smile.
"Precisely," he said. "You learn quickly, Mr. Riffkin. The Supreme Entity banned a lot of things, you may recall, from your Sunday School days, but it doesn't stop people, yourself included, from doing many of them. I'm suggesting that this ban was temporary and no longer necessary, and the world would be a better place if the ban were circumvented. Time changes things, Mr. Riffkin, and I believe that it is imperative that once more, the Nephilim be introduced into the human race, in order to prevent us from destroying ourselves. I believe that I am the Supreme Entity's instrument to effect this introduction. Time is of the essence Mr. Riffkin. Remember that it's likely to be more than twenty years after the birth of the first Nephilim before their impact will begin to be felt."
"I'm not sure about the idea of God making errors of judgement, which, if what you say is correct, the ban seems to have been." said Reggie. "It doesn't tally with what I was taught in Sunday School."
"No, it wouldn't," said Horace. "Some wings of the Anglican church hold a somewhat idealistic view of the Supreme Entity, and as for the Baptists...," he shuddered as though someone had just poured water into his whisky, "even more so. I know for a fact that they would not approve of what I am doing. But if they knew, they would just pray for me, so they're fairly harmless. But I digress. I'm convinced that it is imperative for the future of the human race, that a way be found urgently around this ban. As I said before Mr. Riffkin, time changes things and I believe that the Supreme Entity has revealed to me the solution to the problem. I have recently discovered that there is a way around it. Pour me another glass of that ambrosia and I will explain more."
His glass was indeed empty again, although Reggie didn't recall seeing him drink from it since the last refill. Reggie refilled it, noting with some concern at the same time, the rapidly falling level of the whisky in the bottle.
"Now," said Horace, seemingly completely unaffected by the generous prescriptions of his personal physician's medicine that he had been imbibing. "There was a gentleman named Nimrod, the mighty hunter and conqueror. He was a descendant of Ham, one of Noah's three sons. So, as he was post-diluvian, he had no angel blood. But he conquered many cities and lands. Indeed, Babel, later known as Babylon, was the first of his conquests. He, as my studies have revealed, longed as do I, for the presence of the superbeings on the earth. He was visited in a dream by one of the sons of God, and told that they were again desirous of marrying the beautiful daughters of men. The angel gave a formula, prayer, spell, call it what you will, to him, that would open the portal again, free the ‘sons’ from their chains as it were, and enable them to again descend and marry the daughters of men. But in the end, he did not do it, because his empire was spreading rapidly, and he feared that the Nephilim would take it from him.
“He had become like most conquerors, rather tyrannical and greedy. So his commitment to open the portal wavered, but he could see that there would be a time in the future when it would be desirable to open that portal. In typical self-serving dictator style, as long as it didn't affect him adversely he thought it would be a good thing. He did not write this down, but he passed it verbally to a trusted member of his family, along with much other wisdom that he gained over the years of his life, with instructions that it be passed on to every generation. Eventually, it was written down but lost for many millennia."
Horace paused, and looked intently at Reggie, to see if he was following this long speech. Reggie was still listening with his eyes as yet unglazed, so Horace, showing remarkable restraint, took a smallish sip from his glass, cleared his throat and continued.
"The Wisdom of Nimrod eventually was rediscovered, and in around 1780 a small quantity of an English translation was printed. It aroused no interest and soon disappeared, it was thought, forever. But just last month, I was made aware of the existence of one surviving copy, and I know that the source of this information is reliable. It is believed that no copies survive in other languages. I was visited by one of the sons of God in a dream, Mr. Riffkin, as was Nimrod. The difference was that although the angel told me that they wished to marry the daughters of men again, and promised that the world would forever revere the name of Horace Ponsonby if I could help them attain this goal, he was not at liberty to again give me the formula to bring this about. This can never been done again. But he told me of the precise location of this book and even took me to the place in a dream, and showed me the owner of the premises upon which the book is located. That is how I know that the source of the information is reliable, Mr. Riffkin. It was given to me by an angel."
He glanced again at Reggie, who was still listening intently. "All I want you to do Mr. Riffkin, is to go and try to obtain that copy, or at least view it, and copy, photograph or memorise the relevant pages. Bring them back to me in readable form, and you will receive your payment, and the bonus I promised you. It's a very simple task, Mr. Riffkin, and lucrative for you. I would do it myself if I were a younger man, but unfortunately my personal physician won't allow me to travel by air and the mission needs to be conducted with secrecy, which is why I have approached an obscure and cash-challenged investigator, of whom almost nobody has ever heard, namely yourself. For me, 'the sands of time are sinking', Mr. Riffkin, and before I disappear beneath those sands, I would like to leave a legacy for which the world will thank me eternally. My name will not be forgotten, Mr. Riffkin."
Once again Reggie felt a little hurt to be described in less than complimentary terms, but obviously Horace Ponsonby was not a man who was strong in the area of tact, and he let the comment pass unchallenged.
"Where is this copy rumoured to be located?" enquired Reggie.
"Not far away, Mr. Riffkin, it's in Prague in the Czech Republic," said Horace. "Just a short trip, find the book, bring the copies of the relevant pages back to me. It should take only one or two days at most."
"Prague?" repeated Reggie.
"Yes, Mr. Riffkin. It's really very close. I have an air ticket purchased in your name, You will leave tomorrow afternoon. An hotel booking has also been made for you."
"Where is the exact suspected location of the book?" asked Reggie.
"Patience Mr. Riffkin," replied Horace. "I will leave you a small folder with all the information you require, and I would ask that you destroy all but the air ticket and the cash retainer when you have memorised the information. I happen to know that your passport was renewed just six weeks ago, so there's no problem there."
Reggie gasped. "How do you know that?" he demanded.
"I have reliable sources, Mr. Riffkin," came the calm reply. "I do not leave such things to chance. Now do you have any final questions before embarking on this vital mission?"
"Yes, I do have a question," said Reggie.
"Proceed, Mr. Riffkin," said Horace. "I will strive to the utmost to satisfy your query."
"You mentioned enemies earlier in this conversation," said Reggie. "Who are these enemies, and do they know about this mission of yours?"
"Well, we all have enemies," said Horace "I believe that even you yourself had an enemy in the shape of Fangs Roberts, and later the vicar, if my reading of the situation is correct. I think that it is unlikely that you and the vicar walked together hand in hand as brothers after the incident to which you referred."
"Well, yes, it's true that if our paths crossed, the vicar was rather distant towards me after that episode," said Reggie, "but vicars are generally relatively harmless. Something tells me that your enemies may not have been defanged to the same extent as the average vicar."
"It is true that some of my enemies could present a problem if they knew about this mission," replied Horace. "Which is why I have come here in the utmost secrecy to you. Rest assured that those who would wish to interfere with my mission, are completely unaware of its existence, and of yours too for that matter. There are misguided individuals who would try to prevent me from inviting the sons of God to earth to marry again, based on their own greed and desire for power. I won't go into all the details of that just now, Mr. Riffkin. I can assure you that you will be finished this mission before they are aware of its existence. There are also those who assert that the sons of God are actually fallen angels, or demons if you prefer the old-fashioned word, but the angel who appeared to me in my dream was a creature of great beauty, and it's quite impossible that such a creature could be of Luciferian origin. Not a cloven hoof, forked tail or horn in evidence, Mr. Riffkin."
For some reason, Reggie didn't feel very confident about these assurances, but he also felt the pressure to do this job, and receive the bonus which would set him up for a very long time.
"There is a telephone number in this folder for you to memorise and destroy," said Horace, producing a small folder from his inner pocket and handing it to Reggie. "You can call this number if you have any queries, or to report that you have accomplished your mission. You will be given a new number to call every time you contact us. When you call, give the password, 'the daughters are fair' and your call will be accepted. You will not hear from me again Mr. Riffkin. Your dealings will be with my trusted subordinates in future. And by the way, please don't use a credit card. All transactions are to be in cash only. Oh, one more thing; give me your bank account details, and when I am satisfied that you have obtained the book I will transfer your fee and commission into your account."
Reggie wrote his bank account number down on a sheet of notepaper and gave it to Horace, who placed it carefully in his wallet. He then produced an expensive-looking cellphone from his pocket and pressed a speed dial number. "Ah, Snitterington," he said after a delay of about five seconds. "Fifteen minutes. You know where."
He terminated the call, rose to his feet, and began embalming himself in the pile of clothes draped over the back of the other chair. When he had mummified himself completely again, he turned to Reggie, and said, "Goodbye Mr. Riffkin and thank you for your hospitality. I know that you will be successful in your mission. The future of the human race depends upon your success. It is doomed if you fail Mr. Riffkin. I will see myself out. Perhaps the defective light-bulb has miraculously been replaced while we conferred."
He turned, walked to the door, opened it, and left the room. Reggie jumped to his feet and went to the door, just in time to hear Horace Ponsonby call, "I fear that the hoped-for miracle has not taken place, Mr. Riffkin. The bulb is still not operating. Perhaps when you receive your emolument for this job, you will be able to afford to have a workman replace the bulb for you."
Reggie did not respond; he just watched Horace make his way carefully down the stairs, pause at the doorway onto the street, then open the door and walk purposefully away to the right.
Reggie went back to his desk, closing his office door. Why did he feel uneasy about this job? Perhaps because people who claimed to be doing God's will were often doing the very opposite, or just using the words as an excuse to perpetrate their own crazy ideas. And for goodness' sake, a visitation by an angel to give Horace the information? He was placing himself amongst such as Abraham and the Virgin Mary in receiving an angelic visitation? Obviously barking mad! But, he needed the money, and this was a rare opportunity. Besides, the whole idea of 'The Wisdom of Nimrod' and a portal for the 'sons of God' was ridiculous and how could he possibly be doing any harm? The book, if it existed was probably a work of fiction, and any formula in it also a work of fiction and therefore ineffective. He was just helping a crazy old man to fulfil a dream that he would be remembered with gratitude by the human race for many millennia. A rich crazy old man, he reminded himself.
He stood up, then went to a bookshelf near the filing cabinet, and picked out his battered copy of 'Who's Who?' He flipped through the pages, found the P's and located the name 'Horace Smutteringworth Ponsonby' and read the entry with interest. It seemed that his client was loaded like a trans-Saharan camel, being heavily involved in many major banks and financial institutions, the names of which would be known to most people. Yes, he had it by the sackful all right. Probably the mattressful as well.
Next, Reggie turned his attention to the folder that Horace had left him. In it, as expected, was a return air ticket to Prague in his name, for a flight leaving at 2 p.m. tomorrow. Also inside was a pile of thirty crisp £100 notes. His retainer and expenses money. There was also a piece of paper on which was typed the name, 'Zlotymer Paranovsky' and what looked like a random collection of characters typed by a four year old but which he surmised was the Czech language. He realised that this was the address at which Zlotymer Paranovsky could be located. Also on this sheet of paper was the title ‘The Wisdom of Nimrod’, 1780, and the words “chapter entitled 'The Pathway of the sons of God' or similar wording”.
One thing that had been a major help to Reggie over the years was a photographic memory. He could study a page for a short time, and then up until about one month later sit down and reproduce it perfectly. There was an interesting note adjacent to Zlotymer Paranovsky's name. 'Caution, this man is of a very unattractive and repellent appearance. However, try not to vomit upon first sight of him as he deems this to be an insult and is likely to be very uncooperative should you so insult him.'
Reggie studied the page for a few minutes, until he was sure that he had every letter memorised in his mind. Next was a slip of paper bearing only a phone number. This he also rapidly committed to memory. One last slip of paper with the name, address and phone number of an hotel. Presumably this was where he had been booked to stay. That was it! Nothing more remained in the folder. He took the three pieces of paper into his tiny toilet and burnt them in the washbasin, washing the ashes down the plug hole. Then he went back to his desk, and placed the cash and air ticket in his wallet.
I'll go and have that drink now with some human company, he decided. Somehow he couldn't readily place Horace in that category.
He returned the seriously depleted bottle of Scotch to the 'W' for whisky drawer in his filing cabinet, but left the two empty glasses on his desk, awaiting his return from his assignment. Then he put his coat on, locked the door, and descended the stairs again. This time no mummies interfered with his plans, and he shut and locked the doorway to the stairs and proceeded in the direction of his favourite watering hole. It was just a five minute walk away, and as he walked he mused on the afternoon's events. It was like a strange dream in a way.
CHAPTER 2
As he approached 'Ye Olde Thirsty Hedgehog' his reverie was interrupted by a loud shout of,
"Well, dash my buttons, as I live and breathe, if it isn't good old Reggie Riffkin! How are you old artichoke?"
Reggie looked up. Good grief, was that Montgomery Ptarmigan-Pthompson? An old colleague of Reggie's from university days, (Reggie had dropped out of university after a couple of years), who Reggie had not sighted for at least five years, and then only briefly. Montgomery (usually called Monty by his friends), came from a wealthy family, and had never been short of cash. Most of his spare time was spent in various gentleman's clubs, eating, drinking and being generally merry. For some reason he enjoyed living like an aristocrat from the early twentieth century, even down to his mannerisms and vocabulary. His conversations with his friends could contain insults and compliments in the same sentence but his eccentricity was good-natured.
It was generally held that in his impressionable years he had been much influenced by the superb writings of P.G. Wodehouse. However, he was a jovial person, and Reggie and he had always got on well together. His appearance was always dapper, a little old fashioned in keeping with his adopted persona but not excessively so. He was fairly thin, hair still dark brown, fairly long thin nose, blue eyes.
"Well, Monty Ptarmigan-Pthompson! What are you doing in this part of the world? Last I heard you were incarcerated in your uncle's house, taking care of the old viper."
"Croaked, my dear old bucket of castor oil. Took him a long time, but he left me a sizeable legacy as a token of his undying gratitude. He was a cantankerous old piranha, and I can tell you I earned every penny. I underwent great hardship. Some days I could barely squeeze in two or three hours at the club. What are you up to these days old tarantula?"
Reggie nodded in the direction of the Thirsty Hedgehog. "Come in with me and have a drink, and I'll tell you," he said. "I realise that this isn't the type of bar you would normally grace with your presence, but it's all I can afford these days."
"Fallen on hard times, have we, old pineapple?" enquired Monty solicitously. "I will accept your invitation and listen to you crying into your beer. I've wondered sporadically how life has been treating you."
They entered the rather ordinary looking door of the Hedgehog, and Reggie made a beeline for his favourite end of the bar, followed by Monty. It was a small bar, and fairly thinly populated, the time being 4.25pm. After 5pm it would get busier.
Monty ordered some fancy cocktail that the barman had never heard of, and settled for something less exotic, while Reggie received his Scotch without having to ask for it.
"So old scorpion, you were looking uncharacteristically thoughtful when I spotted you. Tell me what happened to make you throw aside your carefree persona and don the appearance of a constipated warthog."
"Ze life," said Reggie, "as the French say so eloquently, she is ze bitch!"
"Oh, I couldn't agree more, old polecat. She can indeed be ze bitch, and a dog-pound full of bitches on occasions. But what did she do to you to create a face like that of a heartbroken rhinoceros?"
"Well, oddly enough, today she delivered me the chance of a substantial bonus and upturn in my fortune...."
"Well done, old dose of salts. Then let us break forth into unrestrained joy and make merry, casting aside all that would hinder celebration and give us the countenances of warthogs and rhinoceri!"
"But oddly enough, I don't feel happy about it," continued Reggie.
"How so my dear old faceful of pepper spray?" enquired Monty.
Reggie gave Monty a resumé of his life since leaving the police force, and also a brief overview of his interview with Horace, but gave no details of Horace's identity or particulars of the assignment he had undertaken. He simply explained that he felt there was something not right about the job and he wasn't fully at ease with it.
"But from the little you've told me, old sackful of caviar, it sounds like money for jam. Simple task, big bonus. What could be better?"
"That's the thing Monty. When something sounds too good to be true, it usually is."
"True, O King," responded Monty. "There is that aspect that life likes to place your foot firmly on a banana skin just when you think she is about to be kind to you at last."
"Exactly!" said Reggie. "That's what worries me."
They had a few more drinks together, talked about other matters, and caught up on each other's progress over the years, until Reggie started to feel rather hungry. He looked at his watch. They'd been in the Thirsty Hedgehog for more than two hours. "I'd better be on my way now Monty. Have to pack my toothbrush for Prague for tomorrow. I'm going there on this job. Give me your number and I'll get in touch with you again as soon as I'm back."
"Of course, old fritter," said Monty. "And call me any time if you need assistance. I'm footloose and fancy-free these days, not to mention more than adequately funded. I can go to Prague or anywhere else at the drop of a hat. Only too happy to do anything to assist."
They exchanged cellphone numbers, shook hands, and went in opposite directions, vowing to get in touch with each other soon. Monty headed for the club and dinner that had been his original destination, and Reggie to catch a bus home.
"Funny day," said Reggie to himself, as he walked the short distance to the bus stop. His bus trip home took the usual thirty minutes, and he continued to reflect as he walked the few hundred metres to his apartment from the bus stop. As usual, he stopped to inspect his old Corona which was parked on the street, as close to his apartment as he could get it.
"Well old girl," he said, "looks like I can afford to put some petrol in your tank tomorrow, and you can have the privilege of taking me to the airport."
As he entered the front door of his small apartment building and ascended the stairs to his first floor apartment, the sound of 'The Robin's Return' being mercilessly slaughtered on a piano grew steadily louder. The fearful din came from one of the two apartments on the second floor. 'I wonder when Roger's parents will figure out that their beloved son's choice of career is more likely to lean towards a hit-man for the mafia, than a sensitive concert pianist', he thought. 'No chance of any robins returning if they hear that racket. I should imagine that this will be a robin-free zone until Roger rebels and refuses to play any more' (the day for which the entire population of the apartment building was earnestly praying, especially the old atheist on the second floor), 'or he leaves to commence his career carrying violin cases for gentlemen from a certain Mediterranean isle'.
He reached his front door, unlocked it and entered, tossing his coat on the sofa. He shut the door and locked it, and the discordant shrieks of the expiring robin faded into the background. He half expected to find evidence of unwanted visitors, (police and PI work tended to make you a very suspicious person, perhaps second only to lawyers in the area of lack of trust in their fellow humans), but everything seemed to be exactly as he had left it. "I'm becoming paranoid," he muttered to himself. "It's so long since I had some good luck that I'm beginning to believe that I never will, but why shouldn't I?"