by Peter James
‘I’d appreciate that, very much.’ Ross sipped some more of his coffee.
‘He will keep you safe. I’m sensing you need someone to protect you. Am I correct?’
‘You are very perceptive, Hussam.’
‘Ever since I lost my sight, I’ve devoured audio books. I like the works of William Shakespeare. King Lear, who was blinded, has always interested me. Such a great play. Such wisdom. “Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light. Yet you see how this world goes.”’
‘You seem to be coping well with your handicap.’
‘Do I have an option? I cannot hop along to Specsavers and buy a new pair of eyes. They don’t keep any in stock – and someone might try to kill me on the way. Don’t worry – you have nothing to fear when you leave here, no one will kill a non-Muslim who doesn’t believe. It’s just me they are after, and always will be. I’m fine with that, you know. I’m OK. I see how this world goes and that sustains me. If I can help you in some way, that would make me happy. I will call my cousin. I don’t know why you are going there, and I don’t want to ask. I sense it is important. I hear it in your voice, Ross. You’re a man on a mission. My cousin will take care of you. I will let him know you are going to contact him. Just tell him the day and the time and he will be there.’
He gave Ross the man’s email address and phone number.
Then Ross asked, ‘I have one more question – does the word “Hatem” mean anything?’
‘Hatem?’
‘Yes.’ He spelled it out for him.
‘No, it does not. But it is not an uncommon name for a man in Egypt.’
43
Thursday, 2 March
It was after 9 p.m. that evening when Ross arrived home. He had concealed the envelope of cash that Robert Anholt-Sperry had given him down behind the rear seat of the car. For the moment, he decided to say nothing to Imogen about it.
He unlocked the front door and went inside. Monty padded towards him, barking excitedly, tail wagging, followed by Imogen, in loose jumper, jeans and slip-on shoes, who was white as a sheet.
Her appearance alarmed him.
‘Are you OK?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’d better come and take a look at this.’
He gave the dog a quick pat and followed her through into the kitchen. She flipped open the lid of her laptop on the kitchen table. A jar of pickled onions with a spoon sticking out of it sat next to it – another craving. She hit a sequence of keys. Moments later an image appeared. A five-pointed star. He recognized it as an inverted pentagram.
Beneath it was a message.
YOUR HUSBAND IS WORKING FOR SATAN.
YOU MUST STOP HIM. FOR BOTH YOUR SAKES AND FOR YOUR UNBORN BABY’S. YOU ARE WARNED.
Imogen was staring at him.
‘Where’s this from?’ he asked.
‘It came in this afternoon – when I was in the office. One of the guys tried to trace the address for me but it’s anonymous, probably run deliberately through a series of servers around the world.’
Ross leaned down and clicked on the sender. It was a Hotmail address that was just series of numbers, which included ‘666’. It sent a chill through him. He looked at it carefully, then attempted for some minutes, without success, to find the source himself. ‘It’s just some nutter – probably responding to my Twitter post last week.’
‘The same religious nutter – or nutters – who killed Harry Cook?’
‘Harry Cook wasn’t killed by anyone, he died of heart failure according to the postmortem.’
‘Someone dying whilst they’re being tortured doesn’t count as murder? Hello?’ she retorted.
‘The police are saying there’s been a spate of copycat robberies in the area – old people living alone being targeted and tortured.’ He was aware he sounded more convincing than he felt.
‘You have a list of dozens of stories to investigate. Do you really need to pursue this one? Religion breeds fanatics, Ross, we really need to be careful. Let it go. You’ve already been told Cook was deranged – why can’t you see it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You’re obsessed with this story, you’re prepared to put it before me and our child. But that’s how it is with you, Ross. You first. Always. I never wanted you to go to Afghanistan. I sat at home in terror, waiting for a knock on the door to tell me you were dead.’
‘And shagging yourself senseless in the process.’
Instantly, he regretted saying it. The words just came out. It was like they had been piling up, steadily, for years, an avalanche waiting for the right temperature.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, immediately. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘You did.’
It was the elephant in the room. It had been there ever since that day he came home from Afghanistan. They’d cleared the air in the days that followed, and he’d forgiven her. But the elephant never went away. It was never going to.
He sat down opposite her and put his hand out. But she pulled hers away. ‘Imo, if I felt there really was a risk, I would drop it, immediately. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘This could be the biggest story I’ve ever had. I just have a feeling about it.’
‘So, you’re willing to ignore my feelings?’
He reached out again to take her hand, but she withdrew it again.
‘Imogen, come on!’
‘I’m getting scared, Ross. OK? Can’t you understand that?’
‘I do understand. There’s all kinds of fanatics who come out of the woodwork when you write about anything to do with religion. I was trolled on Twitter and had death threats after I wrote that piece on the charismatic evangelists a few years back, remember? But I just have a gut feeling about this, I really do. There’s a big piece here, whichever way it pans out. Look, I think it would be smart to get a locksmith to fit a safety chain on the front door and a spyhole to add to the other security we’ve put in. Would that make you feel better?’
‘It would make me feel better if you considered dropping this story.’
‘Graham Greene once wrote that every writer needs to carry a splinter of ice in his – or her – heart.’
‘And that’s what you have – regardless of the threat to your family? That splinter of ice? Are you cold-hearted enough to ignore my feelings? All because a nutter came to see you with – what you said yourself – was a crazy notion?’
‘Imo, listen. I do love you. If I ever felt for one moment that you or I were in real life-threatening danger over a story I was working on, I’d drop it in a flash. OK? But please understand something. If you’d felt what I felt that morning Ricky died, you’d have to pursue this too. Just to see if there is anything at all in it. It’s not an option for me, I have to do this. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. But please understand I have to do this, please stay with me on it – I will protect us and our baby, I promise.’
‘You’ve just said yourself that religious subjects bring out all the fanatics.’
‘Yes, but ultimately they’re harmless – mostly.’
She gave him a dubious look. ‘Two years ago, when you were investigating that crook who’d killed a policeman and had gone into hiding in Spain, you had death threats. The police warned you that you could be taking a risk writing about it. But it didn’t stop you. You went ahead and published the piece. Just as you did accusing Putin of being behind that Russian’s murder – Litvinenko – in London.’
‘It’s what I do – it’s what I’ve always done. I expose people who do bad things.’
‘Dr Cook didn’t do anything bad, Ross. He believed he could save the world. Perhaps he died because he stirred up the hornets’ nest of religious beliefs.’
‘Imo, I’ve just said, there’s no evidence he was killed by fanatics.’
She tapped the screen, pointing at the pentagram. ‘There. That’s your sodding evidence. It’s a pretty clear message.’
‘I think Satan will be a lot happier
with me when I publish my piece debunking Cook and the whole myth of proof of God.’
‘That’s what you’re planning?’
‘I spoke to my editor at the Sunday Times on the way down this evening, and she likes the story. I’ve started working on it. She’s willing to fund my research – she’s offered to pay my air ticket to Egypt to investigate the second set of coordinates.’
‘What?’
‘I got them today from Cook’s lawyer in Birmingham – another nutter.’
‘You’re going to Egypt?’
‘Listen, I had an idea. Why don’t you come with me? I thought we could make a short holiday out of it – we could go back to Sharm El Sheikh and go on to do the pyramids – we still have our visas. What do you think?’
‘You know what I think? You’ve lost your marbles.’
44
Saturday, 4 March
Two years ago, when Ross had been working on an article about illusionist Derren Brown who had vehemently debunked psychics, he had gone to Southampton to interview a celebrated medium, Christopher Lewis, and his medium wife, Gill, and their protégé, Dean Hartley.
Intending originally to trash them, he had been impressed with their sincerity – so much so that he’d ended up writing favourably about them. After the piece had been published they had written to him to thank him, and offered him, free of charge, a reading with Hartley any time he would like.
He had decided to cash in on this offer.
Now, in the downstairs room of the mediums’ home, he sat, still a little cynical. Dean Hartley, who was in his mid twenties, with shoulder-length blond hair Rastafarian-style, like strands of rope, and every inch of his slender body that was visible covered in weird tattoos, switched on a recorder which was perched on a table covered with a pink-and-black patterned cloth.
A black Buddha sat on the floor in one corner, a small white filing cabinet in another, and a white desk, with a mirrored top, on which were a glass of water and a box of tissues, was against the wall beside him.
The medium, gentle and polite, checked that Ross was comfortable, then closed his eyes and sat in silence for some moments.
‘I’m hearing the name Pip,’ he said. ‘He was born Philip, but all his friends called him Pip. Does that mean anything?’
‘No,’ Ross said. ‘Well, in a way it does, because that’s my father’s name, but as of this morning, he is still very much alive.’
The medium was completely still, with his eyes closed, for another long moment. ‘I’m getting Richard.’
‘Richard?’
‘Rick? Ricky?’
Ross stared at him.
‘Ricky’s telling me something – that your wife is pregnant. Imogen, I think, is that her name?’
The name was something the medium could have found out easily. But not that she was pregnant.
‘Do you know the sex of the baby?’ Ross asked him.
‘He says she is carrying a boy.’
Ross hesitated before replying. How on earth did Hartley know this? They had told very few people that she was pregnant, feeling it might be a jinx to do so, and certainly no one that it was a boy. There was no way the medium could know this. On the other hand, he reasoned, the medium could see his wedding ring and could figure out from his approximate age that he might be in the process of having children. And to guess the sex was simply fifty-fifty odds.
‘What can you tell me about my son?’
The medium closed his eyes for a moment, then frowned, screwing up his forehead. ‘I’m being distracted,’ he said. ‘Someone very agitated who needs to communicate with you. I’m getting a name. Cook. I think a man called Cook who has recently passed into spirit. He is coming through and I’m sensing urgency. He wants me to give you a message. Do you know this person?’ Dean Hartley kept his eyes closed.
‘I know him,’ Ross replied, trying to give nothing away.
‘He wants me to tell you that he is aware you think he is a bit crazy. He says he wasn’t ready to pass and had important unfinished business. He needs you to carry it on for him; he is depending on you.’ He frowned again. ‘He’s telling me about the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, Egypt. You are thinking about going there. He tells me you must, it will unlock everything. He’s giving me a name. Bolt. Kerry. No, something similar. Anbolt? Skerrit?’
Ross waited, and did not reply.
‘Anholt-Skerry?’
Shit, Ross thought, feeling a chill and a frisson of excitement.
‘Anholt-Sperry,’ Hartley repeated. ‘Does this name mean something?’
‘It does.’
‘I’m being told you must trust this man. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes.’
Still without opening his eyes, Hartley said, ‘I’m getting another name. Egyptian. I think it is Hatem. Does that mean anything?’
‘Hatem?’ Ross replied, astonished, and spelled it out to be sure. The medium confirmed.
How? How, Ross wondered, could he possibly know this name? He felt goosebumps. ‘It does.’
‘I’m being told Hatem will be waiting for you when you go there.’
‘Go where?’
The medium closed his eyes again. ‘I’m being given numbers. A list of numbers and letters. They feel like compass coordinates.’
As he read them out, Ross wrote them down. He was trying to remain neutral, neither believing the medium nor completely disbelieving him either, but he was deeply confused. Was Dean Hartley pulling a fast one on him? Was the gender of their child simply a lucky guess? Ricky, he could have found out about easily. But Hatem? Anholt-Sperry? The Valley of the Kings? Were Anholt-Sperry and Dean Hartley in cahoots to convince him? Ridiculous. That was even more preposterous than –
Than what?
Than believing what Hartley was telling him was real?
45
Monday, 6 March
From the window of the aeroplane, Ross watched the lush green vegetation either side of the deep blue Nile give way to a desert landscape of sand and mountainous topography.
Every few minutes he looked down at the notes he had made in his meeting with Robert Anholt-Sperry. And in particular at the compass coordinates he had been given by the solicitor.
25°44'47.1264"N and 32°36'19.1124"E
And then at the numbers and letters that Dean Hartley had given him, along with the word, Hatem. The same.
25°44'47.1264"N and 32°36'19.1124"E
The coordinates for Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple.
Would the mysterious Hatem be there? And how would he find him?
He was filled with guilt and misgivings about the trip. Imogen was not happy, hoping that it would turn out to be the ultimate wild goose chase, and that afterwards he would come to his senses, write a disparaging piece and then drop the whole thing.
He was uncomfortable that he had still not told her the truth about his visit to Chalice Well and what he had found there. Nor had he told her about his sitting with Dean Hartley, but he felt, for her peace of mind, it was better she did not know. He had also kept quiet about the £10,000 from Anholt-Sperry.
As the plane taxied along the runway, he texted Imogen.
Landed. X
She texted back.
We all missing you. Monty has rolled in something horrible, he stinks. Had to shower him, which he hated.
Be safe. XX
Thirty minutes later, with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he emerged into the clammy heat and total chaos of the arrivals hall. A barrage of names being displayed on paper, boards and iPhones greeted him. Among them was his own.
He made his way over to the smiling, happy-looking moustached Egyptian who was holding his name. In his early forties, short but exuding energy, the man was dressed in a beige djellaba and sandals, with a traditional red and white keffiyeh held in place with a black band round his forehead. He held out his hand.
‘Ross Hunter? I’m Medhat El-Hadidy. You call me Hadidy, please.’
‘Go
od to meet you, Hadidy!’ he replied, shaking his hand firmly. He liked the man instantly.
‘Welcome to my country. I will be your guide here. I will look after you, yes?’
He insisted on taking Ross’s bag.
They walked outside, crossed over into the covered car park and headed over to a black, recent model Toyota Land Cruiser. Hadidy opened the rear door for him.
Ross sat in the leather air-conditioned interior, shielded from the outside world by tinted privacy glass. As Hadidy started the engine, Egyptian music played, a tad too loudly, on the car’s radio.
Hadidy pushed a ticket into the machine at the exit and the barrier rose. As he did he turned his head. ‘You are friend of my cousin, Hussam Udin, yes?’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He is,’ Hadidy echoed. ‘A good man in a crazy world, yes?’
‘You can say that all right.’
‘I’ll keep you safe.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you, Mr Ross. Good to do business with you!’
‘You must tell me how much you charge – you have a daily rate?’
‘Mr Ross, you are my cousin’s good friend. It is an honour to have you in my country. I do not charge you one Egyptian pound for as long as you are here. Please. No more talk about money.’
‘You are very kind. But I insist on paying you. I can charge all my expenses back to my newspaper.’
‘I am happy you are here! No payment. No argument!’
They headed out of the airport along a dual carriageway. Soon they were entering a conurbation, with angular beige and white buildings of varying sizes and heights all around. Ross felt secure, cocooned in this strong vehicle.
‘Hussam Udin speaks to many people, and some, they don’t like what he tells them,’ Hadidy said.
‘That’s right.’
‘You know, here in Egypt, we all get along. You want to believe in one God? Or many gods? Or no god? My people used to be fine with that. You know? Believe what you want.’ He pointed upwards. ‘He doesn’t mind! But now Christians are dying, many killings. Why?’
