The first fifteen minutes didn’t yield any significant results. With the money they had been able to smuggle out, the Nazis had set up a construction company—Capri—in which every Nazi war criminal who had made it out of Germany clearly had a part. There was a lot in the files about the company’s projects. The Germans had apparently managed to set it up as a legal business, and one that offered the legendary German craftsmanship at that.
The man was beginning to think that all he held in his hands were the facts and figures of a construction company run by ex-Nazis. He was about to close the file in resignation when he came across a few sheets of paper that, although part of the file, obviously didn’t fit with the rest of the documents. He read the name “Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels” and suddenly his interest returned. The Nazis had founded a new Templar order in Argentina with the aim of reviving Ariosophy, a Gnostic-dualist religion based on their racist principles. Before the two world wars, Liebenfels had taken the lead in establishing this so-called religion, and had fundamentally influenced the worldviews of Heinrich Himmler and even Hitler himself. Himmler’s fascination with occultism could also be traced back directly to Liebenfels’s Ariosophy.
There was a lot of nonsensical stuff about the Holy Grail, Atlantis, the Ark of the Covenant, cabalism and black magic in the pages. None of it brought him any further, except for a few notes penned by an anonymous writer. Attached to the pages, there was also an interrogation transcript, and in that he found the key word he was looking for. He reached for his phone and booked a plane ticket to Vienna.
16
A hospital in the Al-Qahira district, Cairo
Farid Shaham left the hospital. He felt as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His wife, Armeen, looked at him in despair. He would have done or given anything to be able to console her, but he had no idea how to go about it.
“Farid, what are we going to do? Shamira has been given a death sentence. Allah will call her, and I don’t know how I can live after that.”
“I will find an answer,” said Farid.
His wife looked at him in anguish.
“How? We have no money for the treatment! And your pride about your father’s money has only caused us more problems. We can hardly afford food and our apartment as it is. How are we supposed to pay for Shamira’s cancer treatment?”
Farid knew that she was right. His father’s death had fundamentally changed Farid’s life. Farid had never approved of his father’s schemes and had always tried to get his own family through by legal means, a choice that his father had always scoffed at. Farid had steadfastly refused to have any part in his father’s business and had never accepted money from him, but this was different. To save his daughter’s life, he would take any kind of money, he didn’t care how dirty. But that spring had dried up for good when his father was murdered.
“I will find a way,” Farid said emphatically.
“And how will you do that?”
“I will go and get what we are owed. Nor for myself, but for Shamira!”
Armeen embraced Farid, but she had a bad feeling. She already knew what her husband was planning, and though she didn’t like it, she knew that it was the only way to save their daughter.
“My father’s boss, François Cloutard. He is to blame. He alone is responsible for my father’s death.”
Farid did not know many of the details, but at his father’s funeral he had learned that he had been murdered by a contract killer who worked for some kind of terrorist organization, and that the killer turned out to be Cloutard’s own mistress. Cloutard had gotten his father into this. He was still alive, and had no doubt gotten richer. Farid’s father was dead. Armeen stopped and looked at her husband hopelessly.
Farid knew she wouldn’t be able to cope with her daughter’s death. She might take her own life. He was on the verge of losing the two people dearest to him.
“Farid, I don’t want you to put yourself in danger. We did not distance ourselves from that part of your family for nothing. We wanted nothing to do with that world.” Her tone swung between accusation and despair.
“I have no other choice. I have to take this risk. For Shamira.” Farid knew some of his father’s former cronies, of course, other men who earned their money by illegal means. He would have to find the courage to ask them for advice. Armeen shook her head anxiously.
“And how are you going to get money from Cloutard? Are you going to find him and hold a gun to his head?”
Farid nodded imperceptibly. Yes. That was exactly what he was going to do.
17
13th century B.C., east of the Jordan River
The stone crashed hard against the side of Moses’ head. The chilling crunch of rock against bone frightened even Joshua, though he was the one who had struck Moses. The old man fell to the ground, instantly dead—the stone had caved in his skull. Joshua turned away. It was not that he regretted his action, for he knew that this was about something more important—more important than Moses, more important than himself, more important than the people of Israel.
He left Moses’s tent. He knew what he had to do next. Moses had been too trusting; he had told Joshua everything. Not only about the ten laws of Yahweh, but also about a third tablet: one that didn’t enslave people, restricting their actions with commandments, but which gave them power: power to perfect all things deserving of perfection, and to destroy the things deserving of destruction. When Joshua heard this, he had known immediately that this was his destiny. God had not entrusted the tablets to Moses for no reason, and now Joshua knew that he had to possess them. Moses was not the one. He was God-fearing and weak.
Joshua made his way to the Tabernacle. The two men standing guard were known to him. He had commanded them in the war against Amalek. He knew they would obey him.
“Moses is dead. He has been betrayed by heretics and murdered.”
The two guards looked at Joshua with dismay. Neither had the slightest suspicion that he was lying.
“Before his death, Moses charged me with ensuring the sanctity of the Holy of Holies. You will help me with that.”
At first, the two guards looked at each other, unsure of what to do. But Joshua’s gaze was relentless. He stared both of them down, leaving no doubt as to who would lead the Jewish people now. A few seconds passed and their decision was made. They would stand by Joshua.
Joshua stepped past the guards and entered the Tabernacle, where the Ark of the Covenant stood. Until now no one but Moses had dared look inside the Ark; no one knew what it contained. Joshua once again summoned his courage and pushed aside the lid, then took a torch that flickered in the corner and held it over the Ark. Inside, he saw a row of stone fragments, upon which he could decipher various words and phrases. He knew the commandments well, of course. They were the same commandments that Moses had revealed to the people on his return from Mount Sinai. The broken tablets contained the word of the Almighty himself. But there was more inside the Ark. There was another stone tablet, one that seemed intact. It had to be the one that would bring perfection and destruction. The thought of being able to call the tablet his own made Joshua tremble. At first he hesitated, but then he lifted the tablet out of the Ark. He slipped it under his robe and hastily left the tent.
“Follow me!” he ordered the guards. “We must gather the faithful and avenge the death of Moses. I am your leader now.”
18
Austrian Embassy, Washington D.C.
The three black SUVs stood in the curved driveway in front of the embassy building. Tom Wagner and his colleague Jakob Leitner each stood in front of one of the vehicles, waiting for their passengers. Tom was impatient and looked repeatedly at his watch. He couldn’t get to Cairo fast enough. He had spent the entire afternoon preparing for this trip, but not for the chancellor’s assignment: he had spent every free minute working on how to rescue Noah. He had studied the dossier Ossana had given him down to the minutest detail, and had also sent a copy to his cont
act in Egypt.
He was only using the chancellor as a means to an end, a way of getting to Cairo as quickly as possible and with the fewest complications. And he didn’t even feel guilty about it. It all came back to the same mission, after all—the one that had ended with the chancellor being saved, and Noah spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Konstantin owes Noah that much, he told himself.
Tom was not sure, however, if the chancellor still owed him. Konstantin had helped him out of a few holes, to be sure. Considering the messes he’d got himself into while working with Cobra, anyone else would have been fired many times over.
When Konstantin appeared from the embassy building, Tom opened the door of the car for him. Then he got in beside the chancellor and closed the door. His leg jiggled nervously up and down, and he checked his watch yet again.
“Are you all right?” the chancellor asked him.
“Yep, all good.” He turned impatiently to the driver and said: “Can we go?”
The other members of the economic delegation flying to the talks in Cairo had climbed into the second and third cars. The construction of the new capital, thirty miles out of Cairo, was a big chance to secure international contracts, and Austria wanted to be part of that. The three cars set off for Dulles International Airport, where the luxurious private jet of an Austrian industrial magnate was waiting for them—it was he who had arranged the talks. If everything went as Konstantin Lang hoped, it would mean a huge economic boost for Austria. After extensive reforms, the economic upswing in Egypt was obvious to anyone who was watching; international donors were investing hundreds of billions into the new but highly controversial construction project. Lang wanted a piece of that pie for Austria.
Apart from one or two stretches of turbulence, the flight was largely uneventful. As the journey progressed, spirits inside the cabin warmed up to match the weather in Egypt. Most of the delegation were certainly enjoying themselves: the magnate’s jet offered every luxury imaginable, including a bar, à la carte food worthy of a 3-star restaurant, a living-room atmosphere and a separate cinema. But Tom wasn’t interested in any of it. He was sitting apart from the others and reading through Ossana’s file again when Konstantin Lang, a glass of wine in his hand, came and sat down opposite him in one of the huge upholstered chairs. The chancellor had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie.
“Come on, Tom. Put that away and relax a little. This is a business trip, not a study trip,” Lang said. He seemed more relaxed today than he had two days earlier, when he had first asked Tom for his assistance.
“If the danger’s already been neutralized, you don’t need me anymore,” Tom joked, although it came out a little snide.
“What’s going to happen up here? We’re among friends,” Lang said, spreading his arms wide and looking around. It looked as if the wine had already gotten to him, Tom thought.
“Konstantin, I’m going to be up front with you,” said Tom, closing the file. “I’m only here because Noah needs my help. He’s caught in some serious shit and I’m the only one who can help.”
“And that means . . .?”
“That means that I needed a fast, uncomplicated flight to Cairo, and you happened to be offering just that. I’m sorry.”
“But Tom, you can’t do that. We’ve got a deal, and I expect you to keep up your end of it.” The chancellor suddenly sounded more formal.
“So Noah doesn’t mean anything to you? Think back. Think about why he’s in a wheelchair.”
“That may be. I am extremely sorry, and I will be eternally grateful to him, but I need you there. A deal is a deal. You do what you’re supposed to do for me, and when I’m back at the embassy you’re free to do whatever you want.” Shaking his head, the chancellor stood up and rejoined his colleagues.
Tom wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He decided to keep his mouth shut for now and make the best of the situation. The chancellor’s errand would only take up a few hours tomorrow, and in the meantime Tom’s ally could take care of all the necessary preparations before they met in Cairo. In the evening, when the chancellor was safely back at the embassy, Tom could devote himself to Ossana’s job.
After a while, Tom put the dossier aside and used the rest of the flight to grab a little sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day. He leaned the luxurious recliner all the way back, stretched out and snapped off the light. When Tom closed his eyes, the party in the front section of the plane was still in full swing.
The plane landed in Cairo early the next morning. Once they had completed the diplomatic formalities and were led away to their waiting limousines, Tom excused himself for a moment and walked over to a man waiting for him outside the VIP parking lot.
It was none other than his old friend François Cloutard.
19
Café Corniche, beside the Nile, Cairo
“Tom thinks it is so easy,” Cloutard muttered to himself as he wandered through the back alleys of Cairo. “Does he really believe I can just snap my fingers and make all the crooks in Cairo come running to tell me what they know?” In his light-colored, somewhat rumpled seersucker suit, creased white linen shirt and a Panama hat, François Cloutard looked at first glance like an exceedingly elegant and worldly Frenchman. His hair, already starting to gray, was combed back stiffly, giving a neat but not oily impression. Smoke rose from the cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth. What was not visible on the outside, however, and what made his friendship with Tom so extraordinary, was the fact that he had run the largest art-smuggling ring in the world until six months ago.
Cloutard and Tom had gotten to know each other under very unusual circumstances, and they had shared a common nemesis ever since: Ossana Ibori, who had been Cloutard’s mistress until she brought his empire crashing down. She had also murdered his confidante and right-hand man Karim. Since then, Cloutard’s luck hadn’t been the same. Once fallen from grace, it was not easy to regain his former status—that was as true in criminal organizations as it was in politics. Building trust took years, but one mistake and you could lose everything in the blink of an eye. But perhaps working with Tom would restore a little of his karma. When Tom had called and asked for his help, it was the tonic Cloutard had needed. After his last adventure with Tom, he had discovered for himself that one could never know what would happen next. Shortly after arriving at the airport, they had talked through their next steps.
Cloutard had not been to Cairo for almost two years and, although he still had plenty of contacts in the city, he did not know how cooperative they would be after his loss of power. Cairo was one of his former hubs. He had recruited many a grave robber and smuggler there in the past, so he knew exactly where to start his search: Café Corniche, on the banks of the Nile in what was by far Cairo’s best neighborhood. The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, the U.S. Embassy and the Egyptian Museum were around the corner, and it was where the rich and beautiful of the Egyptian capital came to play. It was a district where one could expect to meet all kinds of people, though perhaps not the movers and shakers of the international grave-robber mafia. Still, it was one of these that Cloutard was looking for.
As he entered the café, which at first glance looked like an old Viennese coffee house, his mind turned automatically to Tom. He would no doubt feel at home in here. He walked confidently through the café, heading for the bathroom at the back, and opened an unmarked door along the way. On the other side stood a six-foot-six guard with a wrestler’s build and a Kalashnikov dangling from his shoulder. He recognized Cloutard immediately, nodded and stepped aside. Cloutard descended the stairs behind him.
It was like a gateway to another world, another time. The bar at the bottom of the stairs was beyond run-down—it was a complete shithole. Plaster crumbled from the walls, and the furniture was a random assortment of aging wooden chairs and tables. It might be called “retro-shabby-chic” in other latitudes, but here it was authentic: time had created the look. Low music oozed from an ancient jukebox. At the bar sat a drunk
, trying to cajole the bartender into giving him another drink. A handful of other guests occupied a few tables. A ceiling fan turned slowly with a low, scratchy squeak, making no difference whatsoever.
As Cloutard descended the stairs, all eyes were on him. He walked slowly to the bar. A few of the patrons leaned close and whispered, but most quickly returned to their own business. The bartender had a glass of cognac poured for him before he reached the bar. Cloutard nodded his thanks, briefly inhaled the bouquet and took a sip. Much had remained the same. Cloutard handed the bartender a fifty-dollar bill.
“Where is the Welshman?”
The man took the bill and pointed toward a doorway hung with a bead curtain at the other end of the bar.
Cloutard thanked him. He went along the bar and pushed the curtain aside. Cigar and cigarette smoke filled room. The air was motionless. A huge, ancient light globe dangled above a small, round poker table. And there sat Berlin Brice, known to all as the Welshman, the grand seigneur of Egyptian grave-robbers.
“François Cloutard. You’ve got some nerve, showing up here out of the blue.” The voice was like a whisper and matched perfectly the small, frail figure who had just laid down his cards and was gathering the chips he’d won.
“I need your help,” said Cloutard, ignoring the Welshman’s remark.
“He needs my help,” the Welshman croaked, and the rest of the poker players broke into laughter.
“It is not for me. A friend of mine has been kidnapped. He’s being held somewhere in Cairo.”
“And you thought you’d toddle down here after all that’s happened and just ask me if I knew anything about it?”
The Library of the Kings (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 2) Page 6
