book preview of THE TWELFTH MAN





Sir Henry Layard discovers Twenty-Five Thousand Sumerian clay tablets buried
deep in earth.  Commissioned by the Queen to translate their coded meanings, he
begins to pen a journal. Could Sir Henry’s discovery evidence Man’s birthplace
and manipulation by a ruling class of Blue Bloods?  

In the midst of a deadly H1N2  flu epidemic unleashed upon the world’s
population, twelve of the most influential financiers hold a clandestine Summit
in Western Europe, headed by The Albino, a man claimed to be

de Illuminati.
secret agenda, masked as the so-called “cure”: A Microchipped Population. When
Doc Mitchell, Senior Intelligence Officer with the NSA (National  Security
Agency) learns of The Albino’s agenda, he assigns Guy Fawkes, a  mind-controlled
assassin, to eliminate several key players, including the first Australian-born
President of the World Bank,  Randall P. Cahill, who’s now refusing to back
loans to finance the  human  implantation process.

Doc knows this Mission will
implicate the President of the United States Richard Davies (his close friend
and Freemasonic Brother), top politicians and investors, who now stand to lose
their fortunes in a vast criminal conspiracy.

Will Guy Fawkes complete his

Meanwhile, millions are
dying daily across the world, and  something must be done.

In Store Price: $29.00 

Online Price:   $28.00




Number of pages: 285
Genre:  Fiction





Christopher Gordon

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2009

Language: English



A native of the United States,
the author resides in Melbourne, Australia, with his wife and daughter.

Read a sample of the book:

When men began
to increase in number on the Earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of
Gods saw that the daughters of men were beautiful and they married any of them
they chose…The Nefilim were on Earth in those days, and also afterwards, when
the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were
the heroes of old, the men of renown. 



It will take a
more definite recognition of the Grand Architect of the Universe before the apex
stone is finally fitted into place and this nation in the full strength of its
power is in position to assume leadership among the nations in inaugurating the
New Order of the Ages.

Henry A.
Wallace Vice President of the United States





The sun rose into
a raging ball of orange fire.  Sir Henry looked below his dangling feet as he
climbed into the bowels of Earth. Sand, between his teeth, crunched like grit.
Sand, fine as powder, coated his eyes. Sand, golden, infected his scraped knees.
Sweat poured from his thinning face, to which he absently swept with an old
kerchief. He wore a khaki wide-brim hat, a cliché, which had barely protected
his skin from the blazing rays. Hot winds, bursting into sandstorms, whipped his
once youthful, now weathered face. Exhausted from the descent, he drank cool
water from his canteen before continuing his task.

Sir Austen Henry
Layard, known to some as Layard of Nineveh, was an Honorary Degree recipient
from Oxford at the height of the Romantic Period. Soon afterward, he entered
Temple Bar and took a seat in British Parliament. His obsession to find the
genesis of the human race consumed him like the vast pit in which he now stood.

Abu, Sir Henry’s long-time
colleague, and native of the region, was in awe by the Englishman’s relentless
hard work. Tall and dark, with full lips and an almost inhumanly large
physique—features more Egyptian than Iraqi—Abu was astounded by Sir Henry’s
instinct and skills, “The desert,” he said in the vast hollowness, the acoustics
echoed his baritone cry, “The desert runs through the Englishman’s veins!” He
laughed in astonishment as an impromptu round of applause came once more.

The entrance was
flanked by impressive winged lions made of gold.  Sir Henry gazed in awe at the
entry to an eight-chambered library: a King’s library. He wiped the dust from
his eyes; he pointed toward the Heavens, at a god-like figure sitting on a
throne; and dark skinned servants, giant and muscular, bearing gifts to their
ostensible deity. From the south side, a blue and gold enameled figure: a King
leaning on an apse, next to this was a pious four-winged Queen. To the east and
west lay smaller pieces of clay tablets. “Abu, do you see what I have uncovered?
Look, look upon our ancestors.”

“They,” Abu said
captivated, his voice low, “they are from the beginning of civilization. 
Heavenly, quite literally, heavenly.”

“What do you make
of it?”

Abu turned to Sir
Henry, thoughtfully he said, “It is a land that existed before Babylon.”  He
gave a slight cautioned look at Sir Henry. “It is a Mesopotamian civilization
that is the Genesis for us all.” The desert man’s big black eyes opened
even wider. “Your discoveries…they predate the Hittites, the Canaanites, and the
Akkadians. It is the source…the source…of our lives, but, it is more
than that, for, it is Dilmun—a place of magic. The land of spirits and
the fountain of youth, it is here that the deity Lagash first
contemplated gods and love, these stones shall tell a story of interbreeding.
Your discovery, I dare say in the most humble way are most important to us all.”
Abu spread his powerful arms, bowed slightly, reaching and gesturing—the
world—sitting, legs crossed on the unending desert floor, hundreds of feet
subterranean, near the gates of the great library.

One of the few men
from Iraq having had the benefit of a private education, Abu had learned to
speak English as a young child. As a young man in the desert, he taught himself
to read the terrain: he listened to and grew to understand the desert, paid
attention to visiting excavators, and in time, became a local legend, indeed a
legend suggesting possession of special powers, of inter-dimensional
telepathy—he could talk to the spirits. Indeed, Abu shared an inner spiritual
knowledge with the desert, explaining to Sir Henry that this newly discovered
Library told tales of god worship and kingship on Earth, in a language that had
been passed down by the Mesopotamians, their progeny and bloodlines…and all
civilizations that came subsequently.  

Another round of
applause from his crew echoed in the vast hollow ground as artists recorded, in
watercolor and pencil sketches, an accounting of Sir Henry’s discovery: an
Akkadian library filled with dictionaries and cuneiform texts, a language akin
to Ancient Egypt, predating any other time known to Man—an early language yet to
be discovered. 

Sir Henry turned
to Abu and a few other experts in archaeology.  “My friends, the Old Book talks
of a place known in Genesis…yes, Genesis I believe…of a place known as ‘Shinar.’
Could this be that  place?  Could this spot be the hall of records,
depicting a front row seat to the evolution of Man himself?”

Abu answered
serenely: “This is the Mesopotamian land where the ancient Hebrew’s Diaspora
grew.  Where man saw himself, for the first time, connected to the planets—to
the gods themselves!  Indeed, my western colleague, Genesis talks of Shinar
But to us Iraqis, we know that civilization as the ancient Sumerians.”

Sir Henry thought
it not possible, but even in that cold vast pit Abu’s words had sent chills down
his spine.  “Ancient Sumerians.  Yes, of course.”  He began to understand. “For
thousands of millennia, homo erectus had lived a dull, primitive life. 
Then, one day, an ancient Library literally defines a time where Man…” he paused
here, careful not to offend any Christian archaeologist who might have been
standing around, listening intently.  Sir Henry cleared his throat.  He had
wanted to say, that it appears from the texts that a modern, advanced culture
ensued and flourished, expanding to the Nile and Egypt, up the Mediterranean. He
had wanted to say that, by the time Babylon conquered as much of the world as
possible, religion, economics, art, law and medicine were old news.  He had
wanted to say these things, but abstained.  There would be plenty of time to
engage in formal discussions,
he thought. 

It had taken his
crew three months to uncover twenty-five thousand clay tablets, bas-reliefs, and
etched depictions of black-headed slaves. Sand-caked bas-reliefs and monumental
texts were packaged and placed in huge wood-slat crates and shipped, from the
Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, then to Britain, in the manner and tradition of the
ancient mercantile. He had gone through great lengths to carry out his
excavations. It was worth it: soon after his arrival to London, Sir Henry was
commissioned by the Queen to give a formal lecture series at King’s College,
using his finds as demonstrative proof of the Ancient Sumerian’s existence and
influence on Man.

For long years,
Sir Henry had worked tirelessly to complete his essays on the subject of Sumer,
while writing in his private journal that the discovery of the Akkadian King
Ashurbanipal translated the Sumerian language, unveiling Man’s birthplace: a
truth he wished to keep quiet. Not an apocalyptic, nor prophecy, but rather,
manipulation, by ruling class of blue bloods. His private journal and essays
narrate a story of cultural imperialism and epistemology, a story sublime, and
in a sense, genius.

Boca Raton, Florida 


Heavy iron gates
swung open wide as the white Mercedes Sedan with blue tinted windows pulled
through the front entrance of Boca Palms Country Club. Sunshine made the black
asphalt glitter with silvery specks, as if diamonds were in the road. Slowly,
the Mercedes made its way, passing Spanish style homes, where Cadillacs sat idle
on turquoise and terra cotta driveways.  A half-mile up was Boca Palms
Clubhouse, and coming into view were those silly golf carts carrying men with
brightly colored pants and hats and shirts.

Passed the
clubhouse he turned left onto a private road. Flanking both sides were rows of
condominiums.  Nothing seemed out of place: Mexican immigrants—probably
illegal—worked hard on the grounds, keeping the bougainvilleas and the palm
trees trimmed and manicured, the red ants in check, and the poolside free from
any debris from leaves and lawn clippings. He did not look at or acknowledge the
club’s workers, nevertheless he paid attention to their work, and, satisfied his
condo fees were well spent, he pulled into the driveway.

He did notice that
Nancy’s candy-apple-red Mercedes SLK convertible was gone. Obviously, she had
gone shopping, or perhaps she was at the club having drinks, or whatever she
 did on Tuesdays.

Slowing down, he
passed a 1950’s Cadillac with a thick sun-worn green cover, a dark green Jaguar
with gold trim, and a white commercial van, obviously an electrician or HVAC
repairing one of the air conditioners that always malfunctioned due do their
excessive use. Geoffrey Forester Parker secured his car, grabbed his worn
burgundy leather brief case, and exited the garage walking past the courtyard. 
He proceeded to the screened-in lanai kicking little salamanders along the way. 
He entered the air-conditioned condominium through the kitchen’s sliding glass

He was alone. It
felt good, he thought, to be home early and in the cool air-conditioning—not
that he needed permission to come home early; but, he’d get more work done here
than at the office.  Absently, he placed his briefcase on the quartz countertops
in the remodeled kitchen (Nancy insisted on the best). He looked around for a

The foyer opened
up to the living area that decorated cherry-wood floors, pastoral drapes and,
what Parker considered to be, very Floridian wicker furniture. Nancy had shut
all the blinds; she always said the sun would fade the floors and fabric.
Yawning, he sat on the love seat reviewing his notes, preparing for a board
meeting, penciling his thoughts on a yellow legal pad. Everything seemed still.
Convincing himself that he needed a drink, rising, he moved slowly to the wet
bar.  He reached into an ice bucket and clinked and handful of wet banana shaped
cubes against crystal.  His ears perked. Nancy?  Nancy’s come home. He paused
for a moment and poured three fingers of vodka.  Another sound grabbed his
attention. Nancy? Is that…?

In a split moment,
a razor-sharp wire dug deep into Parker’s neck. Blood gushed. His tongue pushed
from his blue mouth, his knuckles turned pink to white, his stomach let loose,
spilling what was inside of him. Eyes bulged and his arms flailed as the crystal
highball shattered into a million shards of tiny diamonds. He dropped dead
weight onto the cherry wood floor. A garrote sliced halfway through his neck.

Careful not to
track wet footprints, the killer quickly dressed into his work clothes that read
Florida Power and Electric embroidered on the back, grabbed his kit, slipped
past the busy landscaping crew, and climbed into a white van, out of sight from
any neighbor.

As he settled
behind the wheel of the white van, a bright red convertible, driven by a woman
in her fifties wearing designer sunglasses and a pastel scarf around her
salon-styled hair, rolled up the private drive towards the condominium; he
glanced quickly and pulled his bill cap over his large skull, covering his face.
A moment later, he drove from the private residences, losing sight of the red
convertible in the rear mirror. Had the woman noticed him? He approached the
wide gates that automatically swung wide. The van traveled another thirty
minutes, passing Lauderdale’s neon automobile dealerships, finally making it to 
South Beach, parking at a street meter, with the intent to abandon. Walking on 8th
Street to Collins Avenue, the killer passed Miami Ballet Stage Door and quickly
lost himself with colorful locals, then, eventually, he’d leave Miami, spending
the next several days on a private boat off Marathon Island, the Keys.

Chapter 1 (Part

Monday, July
10—Atlantic Northeast  

Early in the
morning, those hours of oblivion, those deep hours before dawn, he awakened. His
skull ached, but his body was refreshed and strong. He slipped out of bed and
walked toward the window. He tugged it open, stuck his head outside and took a
breath. The moist air filled his lungs. As he exhaled, his breath was visible in
the heavy July atmosphere.        The digital ring of his cell phone sounded. He
gave it a thoughtful glance. Reluctantly, he opened the cover, placed it to his
ear and waited for the caller to speak.

“It’s me,” Eliot
Harness said.

“I’m here.”

“Doc’s going to
brief us tonight, you leave at four o’clock, I’ll send someone to get you.” He
paused, and then added, “Can you be here by that time?”

“Do I have a
choice?” said Guy Fawkes, standing, peering over the harbor.

“No, of course
not,” Harness said, ending the call.

Fawkes was
un-amused. Looking out toward the horizon that shadowed seagulls circling below
a red-gray sky, the polluted water’s opaque reflection glistened in his eyes as
he sipped peppermint tea. The warm liquid penetrated his throat and soothed his
head. Washington. DC meant secrets. With secrets come leaks. With leaks come
problems. Had this assignment leaked? After fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups,
wearing a pair running shoes and a black track-suit, Fawkes stretched and headed
out into the city’s smog. He ran for miles, a reward for years of deeply
ingrained training and conditioned reflexes.

Drenched from
sweat, Guy Fawkes briskly walked down a narrow alley where tandem-parked cars
sat idle. BMW’s and Saab’s were crammed next to one another, rodents scurried
near open dumpsters that stank of garbage. He kept his balance on the slippery,
centuries-old cobble stone streets and moved quickly to the rear ingress of the
Omni Parker House Hotel. The Hotel’s security camera peered out from the corner
of the roof-top, moving every few seconds a few degrees from right to left,
observing those who’d passed by its all-seeing eye. Avoiding the main lobby,
Fawkes took the inner staircase: a white-yellow interior, with a deco-tiled
stairwell bordered by ornate crown moldings and a hundred years of lead-paint.
Adroitness carried him up to the fifth floor three steps at a time. At the door
of his suite, he swiped the card-key and entered. Once inside he prepared
another peppermint tea. Then, he packed his kit and prepared to meet with Eliot

False life and
mind, Guy Fawkes was willing to compromise a mark at the behest of his handler,
to be part of Project Twelfth Star, PTS. Twelfth Star operated in a corrupt,
steel-mill town that sat in the valley of the Western Reserve range, a most
corrupt town.  A corrupt town located along the oily banks of the Mahoning
River. A corrupt town where organized crime pervaded. A corrupt town
where the residents kept their mouths’ shut in fear of reprisal from mobsters. A
corrupt town situated in a deep valley of industrial waste and suburban, working
class ethnics, poor blacks, and, domiciled on the outskirts—Baptist farmers and
their large families.

Fawkes thought
about Project Twelfth Star. He knew it fell outside the purview of government
and congressional interference, its “enactment” passing constitutional muster. 
He smirked. It was with the National Security Agency, NSA—specifically its black
operations—that he became an “employee”.  

Realizing the
time, he prepared for his trip to Washington, DC. His head ulcerated at the very
mention of DC, giving him quick flashes of mental anxiety attacks. The briefing
with Harness made it even worse. With a groan, Fawkes squeezed his temples as
throbs of pain ate away at his cerebrum, like a room full of snare drums ripping
off paradiddles with speed and precision.

Showering a few
minutes later, as the scalding water smacked and splashed against his body,
massaging his back and shoulders, he became lost in thought. And as the hot
water shot out thin beads of powerful water, he stood motionless, thinking of
Eliot Harness, thinking of DC.




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