Hidden Gods

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Who are you?’ Philippa whispered.

  ‘Tarik Ibrahim.’ He smiled at her in genuine amusement. ‘Working for Iraqi Intelligence. I thought that would surprise you – just when you were beginning to trust me. I’m afraid I’ve been a man of many parts. But you have plumbed the depths and reached the last. The real me. The real loyalty.’

  Hugo, was numb now, as if he had suddenly been anaesthetized, but Philippa seemed composed. ‘The Brotherhood – the old men in the summerhouse?’

  ‘We are all loyal to Iraq and to Saddam Hussein. The original Brotherhood were executed some months ago.’

  ‘And Jamal?’

  ‘He is loyal to Saddam as well.’

  ‘So everything was a charade.’

  ‘We wanted to know how genuine you were. Now we understand that you are probably capable of releasing the gods, and that is, of course, totally out of the question.’

  Hugo at last found himself able to speak. ‘You’re going to execute us too?’ Yet he still found the situation unreal; he was waiting for the spell to break, for Ibrahim to give them both a good reason for his melodrama.

  Ibrahim ignored him, continuing to address Philippa. ‘You must accept that your role is over. Our chemists have analysed the sample they gave us and will be manufacturing it at Nazra. The Atlanteans will not be allowed to leave but we shall convince them that they can providing they give us the additional chemical ingredients that can produce a more toxic gas.’

  ‘I would have thought the one you had was already lethal enough,’ Philippa replied.

  ‘And the Egyptians permit you to manufacture it here in their own country?’ asked Hugo incredulously, the numbness leaving him and the grim reality of the situation returning. They had been used – and were now to be discarded.

  ‘Under the guise of a germ-warfare research station ostensibly owned by the Egyptian government. Our nations have common enemies. You must surely realize that.’ Ibrahim was as courteous and as benign as ever. ‘No one will know from where the gas emanates. And you have already seen how fast-acting it is. We shall destroy thousands.’

  ‘Are both governments really aware of what you’re doing?’ Philippa was still calm, but Hugo felt the cold rage rising inside her. There must be some way of disarming Ibrahim without a fatality.

  ‘Some key members. Yes.’

  ‘In other words – only the fanatics.’

  ‘That is not the way I would put it,’ he said dismissively. ‘You are of little significance now but we can’t afford to take any risks. And there’s another problem, isn’t there, Miss Neville? You are carrying a child – an Atlantean – and he could be a great danger to us.’

  ‘Where’s the casket?’ asked Hugo, trying to distract him.

  ‘In its sanctuary.’ Ibrahim didn’t look round.

  ‘And the gods are unharmed?’

  ‘Oh, we shan’t harm them. Who knows what use they could still be put to? Eventually they’ll lose power and wither away, but that thing inside you won’t, will it?’

  Ibrahim shot Philippa in the stomach and went on firing. Hugo was stunned by the sudden horror of it all, watching her stagger, clasping her body protectively, perhaps as numbed as he was. But Ibrahim had done it casually, almost kindly, and Hugo saw that he was still smiling politely as he went on pumping bullets into her.

  Philippa took a step towards the casket, her eyes glazing over and the blood pouring from the holes in her body. Then, slowly, she began to fall. Transfixed, Hugo watched her crumple on to the floor. He had lost her. He had lost her in a few seconds. Where was the gods’ protection now? He thought of the ignition keys in the truck, the diesel, the water, the – if they could guide them as well as that, how could this unbelievable tragedy have occurred?

  Philippa writhed, rolling over a couple of times, her hands clutching at her stomach, trying to stem the flow. Her eyes rolled up and she tried to say something, but only a bubbling sound emerged, her mouth opening again and again.

  A small globe rose from the blood below her waist and soared gently to the top of the pyramid. Unlike the other globes that were cloudy, this one was clear, and rather than a serpent Hugo saw a baby, lying on its back, gurgling slightly, kicking its legs in happy abandon. Ibrahim fired and fired again at the globe, but it was so high now, so indistinct, that it made an impossible target.

  Hugo flung himself down beside Philippa, yelling, shouting, screaming, compelling her to live, demanding that the gods, with all their powers, return her to him.

  The trigger of the pistol clicked uselessly, and consumed with manic rage Hugo flung himself at Ibrahim and they fell to the sandy floor, rolling, thrashing, yelling, snarling, locked together like animals. As they continued to roll, Ibrahim lost his grip on the gun and Hugo was able to sweep it away, but immediately Ibrahim was astride him, screaming abuse, no longer gentle or benign or anonymous, showing his passion at last, pressing his fingers into Hugo’s eyes. The intensity of the pain gave him enough desperate strength to kick him off, and soon they were struggling in Philippa’s blood. He could glimpse her, still alive, her eyes staring up at the almost invisible globe, her lips moving slightly, making the bubbling sounds that were so appalling to hear. For a fraction of a second, he felt Ibrahim weaken and was on top of him immediately, grinding his knees into his shoulders and crashing his head again and again on the floor. Eventually, after what seemed a very long time, he was still. Gasping for breath, Hugo got up and knelt down by Philippa’s side.

  ‘I’m not going very far, Hugo. Only to another room. I’ll be close by.’ Her voice was clear and purposeful, but she did not speak again and when he checked her pulse it was faint. Blood was coming from her mouth now, a thick red stream, and then great gobbets of a darker substance. Her eyes were open, staring into his own, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of recognition. Her lips were moving again but when she spoke it was Brent’s voice. ‘Go to Nazra. Drive south.’ The lips stopped moving, a little more blood came – and then the flow ceased. She was an empty shell.

  Hugo kissed her fingers and then her cheek. Philippa was still very warm. He stood up, glanced down at Ibrahim and then moved cautiously towards the door of the pyramid. Why should he go to Nazra? Would she, in some miraculous way, be waiting for him there? His hopes soared, sustaining him as Hugo realized his long journey was not over yet. Perhaps the gods were still guiding their destinies. Perhaps they would restore Philippa to him.

  11

  Birthright

  Hugo ran out into the blinding white light of the desert; immediately the heat descended on him like a suffocating blanket and he could feel it bearing down on him. Jamal was sitting in the sand dunes with a couple of younger men, talking, brewing up coffee. They looked prosaic and mundane in this world of gods and birth and sudden death. None of them looked up and Hugo wondered if the ignition key was in Ibrahim’s jeep or whether it was in one of his pockets. Surely he couldn’t expect any more miracles now.

  Not wanting to risk alerting Jamal and his companions, Hugo darted back into the pyramid where he was immediately enveloped by its stillness. Philippa and Ibrahim lay on their backs. She had her eyes open and Hugo knelt down beside her to gently pull down the lids. He kissed her again and then began to search Ibrahim’s pockets. Finally, to his relief, he found the keys. Catching sight of the discarded revolver he picked it up, wiped away the blood and shoved it in his pocket.

  Hugo cautiously returned to the door, his mind reeling. She was dead. But would he see her again at Nazra? Was there any point in praying to the Atlanteans?

  Before Jamal’s companions could react, Hugo was in the jeep and had started the engine, seeing to his relief that there was a compass on the dashboard. Jamming his foot hard down on the accelerator he swung the vehicle in a wide arc, and sensing something had gone wrong, Jamal slowly rose to his feet while the others ran across the sand-hills to a Suzuki that was parked on the far side of the dirt road.

  Knowing he had a good head start H
ugo was determined to press home his advantage, gunning the accelerator, watching the speedometer rise. The dirt road wound on before him, and the wind that had been light became hot and blasting, lashing the sand so that he could only just see. His eyes smarting and stinging, he tried to look back. There was no sign of pursuit, but the hot wind was blowing so much sand across the road that he could not be sure. Tying a handkerchief around his mouth and nose and dragging on a pair of dark glasses he found on the passenger seat, Hugo stamped hard down on the accelerator again. Gradually he not only lost count of time but also of distance as his consciousness narrowed into a whirling reddish-brown funnel, and he had the sensation of being in the womb, about to see the strangely dysfunctional world outside. The roaring of the jeep’s engine, the stingingly hot sand, the sensation of speed gradually faded, leaving him in a void with his grief.

  ‘I’m only in the other room.’ Philippa’s voice caressed his ears. His mind raced, searching for hope. There came a strange, uneasy conviction: if the Brotherhood of the Winged Disc had all been eliminated by Iraqi security, then he was the last remaining brother. He was the protector of the gods – all they had left – and always would be, whatever life or form he had to take on. And if only he could be reunited with Philippa – and he prayed fervently to them that he would be – then he would serve them always, in whatever capacity they desired.

  Gradually, the hot wind began to die and the visibility to improve, but glancing over his shoulder at the gradually clearing haze Hugo could still see no sign of pursuit and he drove on, watching the fuel gauge. It stood at just under half. Was this to be a re-run of the episode in the truck he had shared with Philippa? Was there fuel in Nazra, or perhaps another vehicle? Could he have been set up to run into another trap, to be stranded and to fail to give whatever remaining strength he had to the Atlanteans?

  The flies came in the late afternoon and gathered around the jeep so that he could only just see the strip of road. They formed a dense black cloud but the phenomenon only affected him glancingly. He was now no longer sure where he was – or even what he was attempting to do; the appalling loss of Philippa dominated him. He had seen her die, but could their miracles replace her blown-away stomach? Would he find her waiting for him at Nazra? The thought beat in his head and became an insistent prayer.

  The cloud of flies lifted and hovered above him, fanning out in the hot air, pin-pointing the way forward, but as he drove, Philippa totally dominated his thoughts. They had only been together, at least in this present life, for a few weeks and Hugo still felt he hardly knew her. Nevertheless, he loved her completely, achingly, all-embracingly. He could feel her spirituality, her mysticism – all the qualities he lacked – and realized that through knowing her he was changed, abandoning his pursuit of material success for the spiritual strength of self-sacrifice. He had come such a long way on his journey – from self-deceiving hedonist to a man stripped of all hypocrisy, standing on the edge of a mystical world of which she was already part. He had to plunge in after her. But how? The road to Basra was the only thing he could now see clearly. Was everything else to remain hidden? The gods? Their ultimate powers? His own? Philippa?

  Two hours later, Hugo arrived at Nazra. The village was fronted by a small scummy-looking lake around which a few camels grazed. A boy was sitting in the shallows and a few yards away there was a group of dull white buildings that faced inwards, huddling away from the heat, turning their backs on the water that was their life-force. A few chickens scratched around in an outer ring of wire netting and there was an untidy heap of derelict cars and trucks in a wide gully. A herd of verminous-looking goats lay on the hard beaten sand near the water and Hugo supposed the boy was their goatherd. A radio played somewhere amongst the houses and there was a strong stench of dung.

  Hugo searched for signs of fuel and then, to his relief, saw a pump at the back of a run-down building that might just pass for a garage. He clambered back into the jeep and drove down towards the lake. It looked cool, inviting, and on impulse he jumped out and plunged in, slaking his thirst regardless of the filthy water.

  The boy watched him lazily, his presence no surprise. He wore a bedouin head-dress, but the remainder of his clothing consisted only of grubby shorts and tee-shirt; there was something familiar in his chestnut eyes.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  Hugo stared at the boy disbelievingly. How could a goatherd speak English? Fluent English which bore no trace of a foreign accent. Then he realized the voice was his son’s.

  ‘I was waiting.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Al-Naratin.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s who I am.’

  ‘How come you speak such good English?’ persisted Hugo.

  ‘From you.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘From you, sir.’

  Hugo tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat. Then, with an enormous effort, he blurted out, ‘Are you my son?’

  ‘I am Al-Naratin,’ the boy repeated impatiently.

  ‘For God’s sake – ‘

  ‘I am here to take you to Christopher.’ The boy seized Hugo’s hand. ‘Come.’

  *

  Nazra was built around a square, in the centre of which was a small mosque. Its minarets and cupola were crudely executed and the red-washed walls had faded to a dim ochre. A few bedouin sat in the shadows, more chickens scratched and scurried in the hard-packed earth and some caged birds sang mournfully in the shadowed arches. There was an atmosphere of timelessness about the place and its scarred plaster, dark alleys and sun-baked buildings made Hugo feel wary. He had been in places like this before. They were dangerous.

  The boy tugged at his hand, and in the back of his mind he heard Brent’s voice on Tiderace. ‘Come on, Dad. Race you to the top.’

  The interior of the mosque was dim and smelt of spice and aromatic herbs and unwashed human bodies. Slowly, Hugo made out the figure of a European who sat cross-legged on a prayer mat. When he saw Hugo, he rose reluctantly to his feet and came over to him, a slight frown on his face as if he was annoyed at being disturbed.

  ‘Hugo Fitzroy?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was wary.

  ‘I’m Christopher Denning.’ He spoke with an American accent. ‘I’m director of the laboratory here.’ He hesitated as if he had an unpleasant duty to carry out.

  ‘Who does it belong to?’ asked Hugo assertively.

  ‘The Egyptian government,’ he replied drily.

  ‘And the Iraqis?’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ he said, and shrugged irritably, as if he had been forced into the encounter and wished it would quickly end. ‘I gather you were sent here by Jamal Rashid and that you wish to photograph our germ warfare experiments.’

  Hugo thought fast and then asked, ‘Am I allowed to do that?’ He had a sudden instinct that Denning was playing a game – a game in which he was expected to know the moves.

  ‘Our government is anxious the West should know we’re doing all we can to counter Hussein’s nerve gas. There is nothing secret here now – we’ve completed the experiments.’ He spoke quite loudly and his voice echoed in the darkened building.

  ‘And were they successful?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Will they continue?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  Hugo felt irresolute, knowing he was working so totally in the dark. He had no plan, but when had he ever had that luxury during his long journey? And he didn’t know the rules of Denning’s game.

  ‘Are you an Egyptian citizen?’

  ‘No, but I’m a Muslim convert.’ Denning paused, as if making an unwelcome decision. ‘Would you like to come and take a look at our work? Then you can decide what you want to photograph.’

  ‘What about security?’

  ‘It’s been lifted. But we’re expecting Mr Ibrahim. I gather you know him well, and of course it’s through him that you received clearance.’


  Hugo looked at him in some bewilderment and then saw movement at the back of the mosque. Were they being watched? Was that why Denning was looking at him so intensely?

  They crossed the twilit square together, heading down an alley between two buildings that looked as if they were held together by a combination of impacted mud and wattle.

  Hugo stole a covert glance at his new companion. He was small and dapper, despite the bedouin clothing which hung on him voluminously. Somewhere in his sixties, with a small grey beard, his neat, regular features had considerable sensitivity, but he was radiating tension and kept staring nervously into the shadows of the buildings. ‘I’m going to stop off before we get to the lab.’ Denning paused at a small stone house without a door.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ said Hugo impatiently.

  ‘Surely you’d like something to drink after your arduous journey?’ There was an unmistakable message in Denning’s eyes. ‘You really must be advised by me,’ he added.

  They walked up a flight of cool stairs and into a single box-like room that had a kitchen leading off it. The furnishings were sparse – a few cushions on the floor, a couple of texts and a shelf of books, largely devoted to Islam. Denning went into the kitchen and returned with a pitcher of cold water and two glasses.

  Hugo drank and surreptitiously looked at his watch. Nearly seven. Only twelve hours to go. What the hell was he going to do? When would the situation become clear?

  ‘Sit down.’ The instruction was peremptory.

  Dutifully Hugo did as he was told and sat amongst the cushions, leaning against the cool wall, looking out of the large window to the street below.

  ‘I think it best to tell you as much as I know. Obviously there were security people in the mosque and I couldn’t speak openly. I came here – but I’ve got to go fast. OK.’

  ‘OK’ Hugo’s nerves screamed. How long was this going to take?

  ‘I know how much of a hurry you’re in and I appreciate the urgency, but you also have to understand my credentials, so please don’t interrupt – or think any of this information is irrelevant.’ Denning paused and then began to talk very fast. ‘A few months ago I had a spiritual experience – far more important to me than my conversion to Islam. I began to dream about a pyramid. So did my son.’