No Heaven

NO HEAVEN

(Book One of the ELOAH Trilogy)

By

Lex Allen

DEDICATION

For my soul mate, Doris!

For those who dare to imagine the impossible, who think outside the box, question what they've been taught and told, and who understand that every great lie is based upon a smidgeon of truth, where nothing is as it seems.

INSPIRATION

"Imagine there's No Heaven, It's easy if you try,

No Hell below us; above us only sky

"Imagine there's no countries; it isn't hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for and No Religion too."

John Lennon

(9 Oct 1940—8 Dec 1980)

All rights reserved.

No Heaven is a work of fiction. Except for historical or public places and figures, the names, characters, and locations are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious capacity. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, except as mentioned above, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © first edition 2013, second edition 2017, third edition 2023

© Cover design by:

The Book Khaleesi - One Stop Author Shop: Customized Book Covers

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FROM THE AUTHOR

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

No Hell 1

No Hell 2

FROM THE AUTHOR

It is said the victors write history. I believe that to be true. I also believe that the victors often misrepresent the facts of history. Let's be honest… they lie. I'll leave an explanation of the impacts and consequences this phenomenon has had on the development of humankind to others more astute.

For me, it's a 'ya gotta love it' thing.

Hidden in nooks and crannies almost everywhere are bits of information that belie the recorded history of the victors. These data packets are fertilizers used to grow the concepts imagined by fiction writers—like me! I've long been an advocate for Stephen King's quote that sets the stage for verisimilitude (a sense of reality) or authenticity in fiction:

Fiction is a lie. GOOD fiction is the truth within the lie.

In writing the Eloah Trilogy, I've taken massive amounts of research in biblical history and mythology, the quantum physics theories of entanglement and multiverse, and a study into the paranormal competencies of telekinesis, telepathy, and astral projection, all collected over several years. I tossed this collective into a giant mixer known as Fiction, and the product became a trilogy of speculative/conspiracy thriller novels—No Heaven, No Hell, and No Religion.

I hope you'll enjoy the books for their entertainment value. But I also hope the suppositions expressed throughout the series leave you asking, Have we been lied to these many years, or is this fiction closer to the truth?

Carpe Diem!

Lex Allen

Heidelberg, Germany 2023

ONE

The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life.

- John F. Kennedy

<<<<<>>>>>

Cologne, Germany

2024 CE

~~~

Jack saw the beggar as soon as he turned the corner from Mühlenbach Strasse to Heumarkt Gasse. The sight of him, on a street devoid of anyone else, transported Jack back twenty-five years to another beggar in Somalia. It was October 1993 — day one of the Battle for Mogadishu.

* * *

The earbud in Jack's ear came alive. Check out the bum, Jack.

Roger. The microphone attached to his collar carried his reply to the team leader. He altered his course down the rubble-strewn street toward the old man lying slumped against the wall of a burned-out building. Behind him, his Special Forces team was arrayed in a staggered formation that provided maximum dispersion while maintaining visual and covering fire continuity with each other. Jack approached the man cautiously, his eyes scanning the surrounding area, alert for an ambush.

The beggar looked harmless—an old man down on his luck, but the Somali militia, loyal to the warlord Mohammad Aidid often used terrorist tactics, and placing a bomb on an innocent civilian was a tried-and-true method used by insurgent forces since Vietnam.

The man saw Jack approaching and struggled to get up. Jack stopped a couple of feet away. The beggar reached up, silently asking for help. His mouth formed a broken-toothed smile that extended to his watering eyes. Jack took a step backward but, noticing that the man had only one leg, reversed course and extended an arm for the old man to latch onto and pull himself up.

American? The old man asked, his voice a barely discernible and hoarse whisper.

Jack nodded and turned his head away from the stink of his breath. He saw the wooden crutch on the ground and picked it up. The old man's smile widened as he took the crutch and tucked it into his armpit.

Jack flinched as the man placed a hand on his shoulder. He caught Jack's eyes and whispered, Hawiye.

Recognizing the name of the clan that was supporting Aidid, Jack asked, Hawiye, here?

Hawiye, the bum repeated and waved his free arm around. He looked over Jack's shoulder and his eyes widened in fear.

Before Jack could react, the old man's grip on his shoulder tightened, and he threw himself to the side causing Jack to spin a full hundred and eighty degrees around.

The crack of a rifle split the air and the bum jerked as the bullet, intended for Jack, struck him in the back. Jack heard his team immediately engage, laying a barrage of weapons fire on the building across from where he stood with the dying bum in his arms.

He clutched the man that had just saved his life and slowly kneeled to lay him on the ground. He was only remotely aware of the sniper falling out of the third-floor window and his team moving forward in search of other enemy snipers.

The old man held his attention. Jack knew the wound was fatal, simply from the bright red, frothy blood that was bubbling out of his mouth. He searched the old man's face, wishing there was something he could say or do, some way to thank him. The light faded from the old man's eyes, but the smile remained on his bloody lips. They barely moved, but Jack heard his last words, American… gut.

* * *

Jack shook his head, clearing the cobwebs of the past, and stared at another beggar, thousands of miles and many years away from Somalia.

The man snoozed, half-lying against the outside wall of Scott's Pub. Upside down and beside him lay a beat-up felt hat, and a weathered sign leaned against it that read, "Bitte eine Spende"—please donate. He was old or the life he'd led, including his current lack of shelter and hygiene, made him appear so. Several plastic bags next to him contained probably everything he owned.

Scott's Pub was in Cologne's Altstadt, an egg-shaped, twenty-block section of the city along the Rhein River and surrounded by the modern downtown area. The bar carried the name of both its owner and his nationality—Scott the Scotsman.

Jack, though neither a local nor a tourist, often traveled through Cologne, and Scott's was his favorite watering hole whenever he was in town. Four days had passed since his last visit. He was looking forward to a relaxing Kölsch and a pleasant chat with his old friend before returning to his hotel room to work on his blog.

He glanced again at the beggar. Jack had seen better signs with more entreating messages, but he had a soft spot in his heart for people like this. In 1993, during the battle of Mogadishu, Somalia, a one-legged man saved his life when he placed himself between Jack and a sniper. The poor man took the bullet and died on the spot.

Some people looked at the despondent homeless and walked away with their noses in the air. Others would make a wide berth around them and look away as they passed. And, of course, there were a few who stopped and told the lazy bastard to get off his ass and find a job.

Jack belonged to none of these groups, believing no one came to this point in their lives without cause. He didn't know this old man's story, but he was sure it was a sad tale and, to the beggar at least, justification for his current situation. Ever since the incident in Somalia, He'd stop and comply with their pleas for help. He carried a pocket full of change just for that purpose.

He felt compelled to give more this time and pulled a wad of Euro bills from his jacket. But he didn't want to toss a twenty Euro note into the hat where somewhere could see and steal it while the beggar slept. Instead, he leaned over and pressed it into the old man's hand until he felt his fingers closing on his own. Confident that the man held the money in his fist, Jack straightened and entered the pub.

***

The old man sensed the paper in his hand but only opened his eyes and saw his benefactor as he was entering the bar. He squinted with blurry eyes at the crushed Euro bill, and a small smile cracked his dried-out lips. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes while stuffing the bill into one of his many jacket pockets.

Seconds later, he sat up with a start and searched through his pockets. He found the money, straightened it out, and held it up and away so that his eyes could focus on it. Twenty Euros… what was it about twenty Euros? He struggled to reclaim the memory, the significance of the money, and it took several seconds before he remembered the man he'd met three days ago.

He grabbed his plastic bags together and approached the pub's door, but hesitated; the big Scotsman had scared him off so many times since he'd been waiting here. Still, he'd promised the gentle man who gave him the twenty Euros, and the man he needed to see, was in the bar. He couldn't let the fearsome Schotte stop him.

***

Jack! 'Tis good to see ya, lad.

Jack waved and sauntered to the opposite end of the bar, his usual place, where it curved and abutted the wall, leaving room for a single barstool. He smiled as Scott set a large Kölsch in front of him. He loved the pale, hoppy beer brewed in Cologne.

Hey, Scott. He looked around. Not so good for a Friday night. The only occupants were a couple at a table near the far corner and two men at the bar.

His bartender friend waved his hand in dismissal. Aye, but it's early, yit. She'll be fillin' up in a coople hoors, me thinks. Sae, ye bin ot gallivantin' th' toon, hae ye?

Jack couldn't help but grin. It had taken him quite a while to become accustomed to Scott's dialect, and although he still didn't understand every word, he filled in the gaps enough to make sense of it.

He took a small sip of the bitter ale. Just seeing the sights, collecting material, nothing special.

Ain haur Ah was thinkin' ye'd foond yerself a lassie an' shacked up wid 'er th' lest coopla' days. He added a large, comical wink.

Lassie was a male, you know.

A male, ye say?

Sure. Lassie, the dog in the movies, the Collie… they were all males.

Argh…. Scott waved a hand of dismissal and, still laughing, turned to see who entered the pub.

***

The beggar stood in the doorway, head and eyes darting to every corner of the room as if looking for someone. He gazed directly at Jack, squinting as if his eyes might fail him in the dim lights of the room, and started forward with a big smile on his face.

The smile disappeared as Scott yelled. Hey, whaddya tink yer doin'? Haven't Ah tol' ye tae bide awa’ frae me bar? Git ootta haur afair Ah traw ye oot'n yer heed!

Scott was a big, brawny man and, being a typical Scotsman, possessed a strong brogue, a sarcastic sense of humor, and a deep, abiding love of Scotch whiskey. His temper, however, was another matter. It took a long time to rile Scott, but the beggar exceeded his limit of grace. He'd run the beggar off several times over the last couple of days, but the old man kept coming back.

***

Heinz stood frozen to the spot. He stared with eyes wide as saucers at the massive form of the barkeeper. He didn't understand the language, but he recognized the tone of the giant yelling at him, just as he had every time the barkeeper ran him off. He'd always left before, only to return a short time later. This time, he would not turn tail and run; not when the man he needed to see was here.

The bearded berserker was so different from the gentle man who gave him the letter to deliver. The gentle man reached him on a level he had not even known he possessed. If he could express himself in such a way, he'd say the gentle man touched his soul. The man spread warmth, well-being, and a passion within Heinz such as he had experienced just once before in his life—when he'd fallen in love for the first and only time. He'd been eighteen.

Giselle was twenty-one, and her death in an automobile accident devastated Heinz—so much so that drinking to drown his sorrow replaced studying. Within a couple of years, he'd been tossed out of school, a hopeless alcoholic. He'd lived on the streets since his mid-twenties, and lack of proper diet or hygiene, combined with too many cigarettes and booze had ruined his body and mind. At forty-eight, he looked like a seventy-year-old.

Three days ago, a stranger awoke the same feelings he'd held for Giselle—feelings of great and abiding love that gave him strength. He promised to deliver the letter to Jack, whose name he learned from peeking at the letter, and nothing would stop him from keeping his promise, not even this bear of a Scotsman.

Heinz let his bags drop to the floor, pulled the bottom of his jacket down, and set his feet to run. He looked to where Jack was sitting and calculated the distance, and as soon as the Scotsman came fuming around the nearest corner of the bar, he darted past him toward Jack.

The Scotsman, shocked at Heinz's blatant display of disrespect and courage, stopped in his tracks and watched, open-mouthed, as Heinz hid behind Jack. When Heinz stuck his head up over Jack's shoulder and grinned at the Scotsman with his broken-toothed smile, the barkeeper's ire returned, and he strode forward red-faced.

***

Jack raised a hand, Hold on, Scott. I'll buy him a drink and make him a legitimate customer. How's that?

Without waiting for Scott's approval, he leaned around the corner of the bar, pulled a bar stool closer, and looked over his shoulder while patting the seat of the barstool and said in German, Here, take this barstool, my friend.

The old man moved from behind Jack but kept his eyes on Scott.

Jack laid a hand on the man's shoulder. What'll you have?

The beggar pointed a dirty finger at Jack's Kölsch.

Jack looked up at Scott and raised his eyebrows.

Scott didn't like it, but he didn't want to offend his friend and regular customer either. He grumbled under his breath, moved to the taps and drew the requested beer. He set the drink in front of the old man. Ah ain't likin' it, Jack. A bloody pint an' it's ootta haur wid heem. We clear, mucker?

Jack nodded, and as Scott returned to the opposite end of the bar, he turned his attention to the beggar and addressed him in German. You took quite a risk getting in here. You need not thank me for the money, you know.

The beggar held up the crumpled twenty-Euro bill in one hand and pointed with his other hand at Jack and then to himself.

Jack understood that the man was confirming who gave him the money, and he nodded, but he wondered why the old man said nothing. Are you unable to speak, my friend?

The old man looked down at the floor and shook his head. He dug around in his jacket pockets, pulled out a ragged and faded five-by-eight card, and handed it to Jack.

I cannot speak. I have cancer of the throat and my larynx is no more.

Below that was the man's name, Heinz Schumacher, and below that was a social worker's name along with the address of a major hospital in Köln.

While Jack read the note, the old man pulled the ragged scarf from around his neck and pointed to a scar. When Jack saw it, Heinz re-wrapped the scarf and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed.

I'm sorry for you, Heinz.

Heinz shrugged. The denial and self-pity phases were in the past and he accepted his fate. He knew the doctors hadn't removed all of his cancer whether they admitted it.

He smiled at Jack and thought of how two strangers had been so helpful to him—first the gentle man, and now Jack. Thinking of the gentle man, Heinz rummaged through his pockets again.

Puzzled, Jack took a sip of his Kölsch and watched as Heinz pulled a battered envelope from his coat and thrust it in Jack's direction, smiling and nodding his head.

Jack took the envelope, pulled a battered page from it, unfolded it, and held it up against the dim lights over the bar.

Hello Jack Schmidt…

Shocked, he looked back at Heinz. Where did you get this?

He smiled, unshaken by Jack's sudden change of attitude, and kept nodding his head while pointing at the envelope and then at Jack.

Jack returned his attention to the note. Written in English, the words revealed a natural and carefully crafted script. You don't know me, but I would be very pleased to introduce myself on Sunday at the early afternoon mass in the Kölner Dom. I am confident you will discover some interesting material for your blog.

Jack stared at Heinz for a second and then called out, Hey, Scott, get me something to write on, will you?

Scott scowled but dug through a drawer behind the bar. While he searched for paper, Jack pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. Scott brought a sheet of paper—Jack set it and the pen before Heinz. Jack held up the letter. Where did you get this?

As Heinz took the pen in hand and scribbled, Jack tried to solve the mystery of who might have written this note. Stranger still, why would the writer give it to an old beggar who didn't know him? How could the letter writer be sure the old guy would deliver it, or that Jack would even show up here?

The old man turned the page toward Jack, and he read: The gentle man.

What did this 'gentle man' look like?

Heinz thought for a second, wrote a single word, and then stopped. Jack's mind was spinning faster than the old man could respond. Skip that, he said. What did the man say when he gave you the envelope?

Heinz wrote again. As he did, Jack thought more about the message. Whoever wrote it knew he published a popular blog about organized religion. More to the point, the blog was about how organized religion created a power structure based upon fear, which dominated societies for hundreds of years. In the blog, he wrote about misinterpreted Bible verses or how science proved a Bible story false. He wrote about historical documents used to the advantage of the power-hungry religious leaders—past and present. He tried to impress upon people how these leaders' actions impacted, often negatively, the daily lives of millions of people.

A lot of people know I write a blog, but how in the world did whoever wrote this find me?

Heinz pushed the paper toward Jack. The gentle man told me that a man would come here and put a twenty-Euro bill in my hand. He told me to give this letter to that man.

What? How? That's as far