‘They’ve got that funereal feel,’ said Hugo, pausing at the top of the steps.
‘I think they’re meant to be reassuring,’ Philippa replied, as they began to walk slowly down the steps with Ibrahim behind them.
The chauffeur of the second Mercedes was standing beside the open rear passenger door. The windows were of darkened glass and the sombre analogy of death was enhanced as they clambered inside into the cool, coffin-like interior with its aroma of expensive leather.
‘The journey will take us an hour,’ said Ibrahim as he settled back into the leather upholstery. ‘Shall we have a Scotch?’
‘I thought devout Muslims didn’t drink,’ Philippa reproved.
‘This one does,’ he said reaching for the discreet cabinet.
The three Mercedes nudged their way through the slow-moving city traffic and the entrepreneurial chaos of the Cairo streets. They sat in silence, sipping their whisky, conscious that their driver was not only talking into a phone but was always glancing into his wing mirror and up at the rooftops above them. Beside him, on the passenger seat, lay an automatic pistol and a Kalashnikov rifle.
A helicopter chattered out of the cobalt sky and dipped its way downwards. It levelled out about sixty feet above them, and Hugo saw the pilot giving their driver a thumbs-up sign which he returned. As they inched slowly past a bazaar Hugo asked:
‘Why are we travelling by car? Wouldn’t the helicopter be quicker and safer?’
‘Quicker certainly, but we’re safer here – part of the ant heap.’
Safer, thought Hugo doubtfully as the convoy came to a grinding halt, hemmed in by a truckload of squealing pigs and a small van that was piled high with furniture. Further back, under the dark awnings of the bazaar, he had the sensation of being watched as a beggar lurched up to the smoked glass of the car window, chipped enamel cup waving, eyes imploring. Chickens ran round him clucking wildly. Could he be blind? There was foam at the corners of his mouth. An epileptic? A madman? He was like a predatory animal, hovering menacingly. There must be hundreds of others out there, full of hunger and misery, reeking of death. Why couldn’t the Atlanteans solve poverty, Hugo thought savagely, instead of sheltering in a pyramid.
Then he saw the boy standing on the edge of the crowd near a stall that was selling meat, staring directly into the car. Hugo felt a chill of premonition. Surely there was a strong similarity between him and the other boys – or were they all the same boy, he thought frantically. First he’d shot him in the Belfast hotel room, then he’d lured him into a trap in the Kuwaiti border town and now – here he was again. But how could they all be the same, reasoned Hugo, and as he stared the face seemed to change, and when the boy began to walk towards the stationary Mercedes, Hugo could see that he was smiling engagingly.
‘Don’t let him in,’ hissed Philippa.
The smile widened as he fumbled at the door handle.
‘For God’s sake – ‘
The car moved sluggishly away, leaving the boy standing there, a begging opportunity missed, his features now clearly unfamiliar. Just a face in the crowd.
‘No one can get in,’ Ibrahim reassured him. ‘There’s a central locking system.’
Philippa squeezed Hugo’s wrist. ‘What was going on?’
But he simply shook his head wearily.
The convoy drove on, picking up speed, away from the centre of the town, through grey, dust-washed shanty suburbs. Then, without any warning, a goat ran across the path of the first Mercedes. The car struck the animal a glancing blow, knocking it into the rubble-strewn gutter. It lay there, blood at its mouth, the owner raising an angry fist as the car sped past.
Hugo turned to Ibrahim angrily. ‘Couldn’t he have avoided that?’
‘We’re in a hurry.’
‘He didn’t have to be barbaric’
‘We daren’t stop. Better the goat than us.’
Now they were out of the network of streets the cars picked up even more speed, lurching over potholes, whilst animals and even human beings avoided them more by luck than judgement.
Eventually they drove out on to a broad highway with factories and warehouses on either side, and soon they were cruising at a hundred kilometres an hour until the factories slowly petered out and they entered a residential quarter. Large houses stood in their own grounds, with palm trees, swimming pools and gardens that were set back behind fencing and iron gates from which security lights and cameras hung. One set of gates was open and they caught a glimpse of a couple of large cars being lovingly polished by chauffeurs.
‘The place to be,’ commented Ibrahim, and Hugo looked at him sharply. Despite what he told us, he thought, we know nothing about him as a man.
‘Are you married?’ asked Philippa, clearly thinking along the same lines.
‘Yes. I have a wife and two girls. I would like to spend more time with them. Soon, however, I will be able to. Hopefully.’
‘When the gods have flown?’
‘As you say.’
The cars turned off the road and were now proceeding at a brisk pace up a long and spacious drive that was lined by densely packed Cypress trees. Through them, Hugo could just make out landscaped gardens and a large swimming pool.
‘A little ostentatious for a secret society,’ commented Hugo.
‘We hide behind our ostentation. As well as the sign I believe you missed at the front gate.’
‘Which was?’
‘Egyptian Trade Delegation.’
‘Ah.’
‘And, of course, the delegation functions. It’s not just a front. We exist behind its halls of bureaucracy.’
The halls of bureaucracy turned out to be an exceedingly beautiful country house built in Colonial style, with a colonnaded façade and dormer windows protruding from the fourth floor. The walls were painted a dazzling white and a number of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys were parked under awnings outside. Each window had its own blinds and a canopy stretched from the central porticoed door.
The garden was formal in the French manner, with box hedges, gravel paths and flowers in tubs but not in borders. The paths led to a fountain where two cherubs upheld a huge stone cup with carvings of stallions and a jet of water that arched up into the sky and sprayed the wide, shallow basin below, draining away into a sloping duct. The spray from this shimmering golden fan, shot with translucent sunbeams, masked the summerhouse which was to the left of the fountain, nestling in a grassy hollow, overlooking the city below.
Six old men, all in Arab robes, sat cross-legged around a low table on which was a coffee pot and cups. Ibrahim stood to one side.
As Hugo and Philippa entered, they were absorbed into a great stillness; no one moved or even looked up at them and only the splashing of the fountain broke the silence.
‘Mr Fitzroy? Miss Neville?’ He was emaciated, with stick-like wrists, the hands twisted and misshapen by arthritis.
‘This is the Magus – Jamal Rashman, president of the Brotherhood of the Winged Disc’
There was something rather chilling about him, Hugo decided, but at first he could not think why. He glanced at Philippa and saw that she was staring intently at the old man’s gaunt profile, rather as if she was trying to satisfy herself about something. Then Jamal turned towards him and Hugo saw that he had no eyes; webbed skin, soft and pale, covered the sockets.
‘There have been betrayals – we no longer trust each other,’ Jamal intoned.
Ibrahim sat down and gestured to Hugo and Philippa to do the same.
‘As a result the secret has been whispered abroad. The Iraqis lied to the gods. They told them that they could discover the day and time of the opening of the portal – the change in the earth’s frequency that they have been awaiting so long. They told them there would be no emissaries – that the reincarnates would never come.’ Jamal paused, his voice weak, the words difficult to make out. ‘The gods initiated the rebirth of Islam; now they are exhausted and must leave to renew their strength. They will still wat
ch over us but they must be persuaded that the Iraqi solution is not their means of escape.’
‘Do the Iraqis have any chance of establishing the frequency change?’ asked Hugo.
‘No.’ Jamal’s voice was stronger, more anxious now. ‘They cannot penetrate the Chamber of Records. It only exists in a spiritual dimension. But the Iraqis would do anything, say anything, to convince the gods that they will be their saviours.’
Jamal rose to his feet, and Hugo felt that this must be one of the most significant moments in the old man’s life. He had waited so long for the hope they were bringing him, and it was clear he was terrified they might not be ready for the task – or even capable of fulfilling it.
‘You must be spiritually strong,’ he said. There is nothing physical in this attempt to release them. You must use all your powers – you must bring them together to unite your strength. Above all, you must prepare. If you fail, the Iraqis will persuade the gods to give them the formula for the poison, and if they do that – then there will be a holocaust. I can assure you – both of you – that the world could never recover from that. Only continuous war could result’ Jamal’s sightless eyes were fixed on them, and they both knew that he was looking into their minds. Then he said, ‘Let me show you what the poison – the terrible vapour – can do to human beings.’
The other members of the Brotherhood remained behind with Ibrahim as Jamal led Hugo and Philippa unerringly out of the summerhouse into the heat of the formal garden and then through palm trees towards another small building, its white stone shadowed. His blindness was no handicap, and he hardly hesitated as he opened the door of a viewing theatre with a small screen and a couple of rows of armchairs. He asked them to sit and then continued to explain.
‘The gods have already given the Iraqis a mild formula of the gas which has been used on the Marsh Arabs. You will find what you see deeply disturbing. The cassette was sent to me as a warning.’
With only a slight hesitation, Jamal pressed a switch on the wall, the lights dimmed and images began to flicker on the screen.
The village was in a delta, a confluence of a number of different small rivers that had joined in marsh and estuary. The reed huts were scattered on a small promontory.
A dozen Arabs, mostly men and boys, scattered as Iraqi bombers swept low; some hid behind the dykes, whilst others threw themselves into a small wooden fishing vessel. The camera was at first unsteady as the planes flew low, belching out what looked like dense white smoke, some of which settled on the boat. Its occupants tried to cast off and then abandoned the task as the vapour intensified; their hands went to their eyes, their screams thickened in their throats. At first, Hugo thought that this was due to the bad video sound-recorder on the camera, but then he realized that the dreadful sound was for real.
The smoke cleared slightly to reveal the most appalling sight that even Hugo had ever seen in any war arena, and he choked back the nausea as Philippa clutched at the armrests of her chair. Transfixed with horror, he saw the features of the Marsh Arabs gradually dissolve, the skin burning, the eyes bulging and then imploding, blood streaming, hair falling away, the agony impossible to watch any longer. As they both turned away, Jamal stopped the video, but one image remained: the close-up of a child’s ravaged, ruined face. Then the screen went dark.
Philippa rocked herself silently to and fro and Hugo could not bring himself to speak.
‘We don’t know the chemical make-up of the gas,’ said Jamal. ‘We’ll probably never know.’
‘And the Iraqis can process it?’ demanded Hugo at last.
‘No. They were given a small supply, fully prepared. By the gods.’
‘Some gods,’ muttered Philippa. ‘Some fucking gods. Anyone who is prepared to concoct stuff like that can’t be anything but demonic’
‘They are above such considerations,’ replied Jamal. ‘They are not beings of conscience or morality. They have the knowledge: their power is our eternal challenge.’
A force that can be used for good or evil,’ said Hugo angrily. ‘How can you have respect for that?’
‘Like Islam at its purest, there is much good; at its worst, wholly evil. The choice lies with us.’
‘How can that stuff – that gas – be anything else but satanic?’
‘I must assure you that it could be of great benefit to third world countries.’
‘In what way?’ asked Hugo, beside himself with rage. In his mind he could still see what had been the child’s face.
‘With a slight alteration in the compound, the gas can be used as a supremely productive fertilizer.’
There was a long silence.
‘Who told you this?’ said Hugo at last.
‘The gods.’
‘You are in contact with them?’ asked Hugo.
‘Of course. My mind is always open – tuned to receive communications from them at any time.’
‘Don’t the Atlanteans – your gods have any sense of responsibility?’ persisted Philippa, outraged by his complacency. ‘Surely they must know – must see that we are fallible and often make the wrong choice? How can they let thousands suffer for the decision of a few?’ She glared at him, awaiting the predictable reply.
‘They don’t see things as we do,’ replied Jamal unanswerably. ‘Now – we are going to give you both a short time in which to prepare yourselves. Please do all you can to increase your spiritual strength.’
Jamal led them into a small meeting-room next door and then went away. They looked round in silence. Apart from a few cushions on the deep pile carpet and hessian hangings on the windowless walls, the room was unfurnished.
‘We should make love,’ said Philippa. ‘It’s the only way we can increase our strength.’
‘Yes. I know that’s true.’
‘Can you do it – now?’
‘I want to,’ Hugo said. ‘I want to go inside you – I want to be with you. You’ve reached out to me so much. I need to do the same to you – for you.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘More than I can say.’
‘Show me.’
As they took off their clothes, they could hear Jamal praying in another room. His voice was distinct but unobtrusive, an accompaniment to their love-making. She is all spirit, thought Hugo. She never lost what we set out with when we commissioned the pyramid. But I did; gradually, over the lives I had, every ounce of spirit drained away until I was a burnt-out shell, living on evasion, sensation, indulgence. It’s only now, at last, that I’ve come to understand: it’s the spirit of self-sacrifice that is life.
Their love-making was tender and uplifting, and as they came to the climax they could hear Jamal quoting in English from the Koran:
‘One is cast down to the earth, and one
Is lifted on high like the glorious sun.
Blessed is he who has wit to learn
How the favour of fortune may change and turn,
Whose head is not raised in his high estate,
Nor his heart in misfortune made desolate.’
When it was over, they lay naked side by side, holding hands, intensely aware of their unity of purpose.
‘Do you feel strong?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t be running away?’
‘Not again. Never again.’
‘Even if we have to be apart?’
‘In this life?’ he asked.
‘In any life.’
‘I love you, Philippa.’
‘But do you love me enough to be alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t want to be away from you. Why do you – ‘
She rolled over on top of him and pushed his shoulders to the floor. ‘I’m giving you myself, Hugo.’
The three Mercedes drove out into the desert in the same formation as before. The drive was long, but Hugo had never felt so confident, never felt so much himself; not the old Hugo that he had assumed was all he had, but
the new Hugo, purposefully committed. He concentrated on the desert landscape of flawless sand-dunes, the occasional dried-up river beds, elemental boulders that looked as if they had been spat out from deep inside the interior of the earth, and camels on a skyline sharply etched in the hard light.
Jamal sat opposite them, his webbed sockets mercifully dimmed by the shadowy light, while Ibrahim sprawled in the corner, his eyes closed, possibly asleep but more probably listening to whatever they might say.
‘I’m afraid,’ Philippa whispered.
‘So am I. But we have the strength – we must use it.’
‘I feel we’ve been waiting for this – like Jamal – for ever. Once we’re there at the pyramid – ’ She paused, not wanting to continue.
‘We’ve fulfilled our destiny?’
‘Yes. Does it mean we’re going to die? Like insects at the end of their cycle? Is that what’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hugo could bring no comfort. ‘We’re together still. We’ll always be together.’ But then he remembered what she had said while they were making love: Do you love me enough to be alone?
The convoy sped on down the highway and gradually Hugo felt a darkness coming over him and saw himself as a moth hovering over a flame. Night was falling over the desert and shadows covered the sand as the sun set in a blazing halo. He imagined primeval beings stirring in the dunes, waking after a thousand years of sleep. Hugo saw himself and Philippa walking across the desert, eternal travellers, slowly nearing the pyramid, its mouth open, a crouched animal, waiting to receive them into eternal darkness. So often had he been at the point of death, so often had fate seized him, snatching him away, preserving him for this moment. Then the winged serpents took him.
‘Hugo.’
‘Yes?’
‘You were asleep. We’re here now. We’re at the pyramid.’ But it was not Philippa’s voice.
He opened his eyes to see nothing. The fear intensified. The serpents were inside him.
‘Philippa.’
‘It’s me. Ibrahim.’
‘Where is she?’
Hidden Gods Page 14
