Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  ‘Using the clues from the second scroll we discovered one of the hiding places described in the Copper Scroll of Qumran. That was in March this year, somewhere on the West Bank. There were six bars of gold like this one.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘Around three hundred thousand dollars…’

  The whistles turned into exclamations.

  ‘… but believe me, that’s nothing compared to the value of what we’re looking for: the most powerful object in the history of mankind.’

  Forrester made a gesture and one of the assistants took the bar away, but left the black felt. The archaeologist took out a sheet of graph paper from a file and placed it where the gold bar had lain. Everyone leaned forward, intent on seeing what it was. They all recognised the object sketched on it immediately.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are the twenty-three people who have been chosen to recover the Ark of the Covenant.’

  16

  ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH

  RED SEA

  Tuesday, 11 July 2007. 7:17 p.m.

  A ripple of amazement spread through the room. Everyone began to talk excitedly, and then badgered the archaeologist with questions.

  ‘Where is the Ark?’

  ‘What’s inside it…?’

  ‘How can we help…?’

  Andrea was shocked by the assistants’ reactions as well as by her own. Those words, the Ark of the Covenant, had a magical ring that enhanced the archaeological importance of discovering an object over two thousand years old.

  Not even an interview with Kayn could top this. Russell was right. If we find the Ark, it’ll be the scoop of the century. Proof of the existence of God…

  Her breathing quickened. Suddenly she had hundreds of questions for Forrester, but she knew straight away that it would be pointless to ask. The old man had taken them to this point and now he was going to leave them there, begging for more.

  A great way to get us to cooperate.

  As if confirming Andrea’s theory, Forrester was looking at the group like the cat that had swallowed the canary. He gestured for them to be quiet.

  ‘That’s enough for today. I don’t want to give you any more than your brains can assimilate. We’ll let you know the rest when it’s time. For now, I’m going to turn things over to-’

  ‘One last thing, Professor,’ Andrea interrupted him. You said there were twenty-three of us but I count only twenty-two. Who’s missing?’

  Forrester turned and consulted with Russell, who nodded that he could go ahead.

  ‘Number twenty-three on the expedition is Mr Raymond Kayn.’

  All conversation stopped.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ one of the hired soldiers asked.

  ‘It means that the boss is going on the expedition. As all of you know, he came on board a few hours ago and he’ll be travelling with us. Does that seem strange to you, Mr Torres?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, everybody says the old man’s crazy,’ Torres replied. ‘It’s hard enough protecting the sane ones, but the locos…’

  Torres appeared to be from South America. He was short, thin, dark-skinned, and spoke English with a strong Latino accent.

  ‘Torres,’ said a voice behind him.

  The soldier shrank back in his chair, but didn’t turn around. Dekker was obviously going to make sure his man didn’t continue to stick his foot in his mouth.

  In the meantime Forrester had sat down and Jacob Russell had taken the floor. Andrea noticed there wasn’t a single wrinkle on his white jacket.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone. I want to thank Professor Cecyl Forrester for his moving presentation. And on behalf of myself and Kayn Industries, I want to express my gratitude to all of you for being present. I don’t have much to add, except for two very important points. First, from this moment on, all communication with the outside world is strictly forbidden. This includes mobile phones, e-mail and verbal communication. Until we’ve accomplished our mission, this is your universe. You will understand in time why this measure is necessary to safeguard both the success of such a sensitive mission and our own security.’

  There were a few whispered complaints, but they were half-hearted. Everyone already knew what Russell had told them because it had been specified in the lengthy contract each one had signed.

  ‘The second point is a great deal more unpleasant. A security consultancy has given us a report, not yet confirmed, that an Islamic terrorist group knows about our mission and is planning an attack.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘… must be a hoax…’

  ‘… dangerous…’

  Kayn’s assistant raised his arms to calm everyone down. He was evidently prepared for the avalanche of questions.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. I just want you to be alert and not to run any unnecessary risks, much less tell anyone outside this group about our final destination. I don’t know how the leak could have happened but, believe me, we’re looking into it and will take appropriate action.’

  ‘Could it have come from inside the Jordanian government?’ Andrea asked. ‘A group like ours is bound to attract attention.’

  ‘As far as the Jordanian government is concerned, we’re a commercial expedition doing a preparatory study for a phosphates mine in the Al Mudawwara area of Jordan, close to the Saudi border. None of you will go through Customs, so don’t worry about your cover.’

  ‘I’m not worried about my cover, I’m worried about the terrorists,’ said Kyra Larsen, one of Professor Forrester’s assistants.

  ‘You needn’t worry about them as long as we’re here to protect you,’ flirted one of the soldiers.

  ‘The report isn’t confirmed, it’s only a rumour. And rumours can’t harm you,’ said Russell with a broad smile.

  But confirmations can, thought Andrea.

  The meeting was over a few minutes later. Russell, Dekker, Forrester and some of the others went to their cabins. At the door of the meeting room were two carts with sandwiches and drinks that some crew member had discreetly left there. Evidently, the expedition members were already being isolated from the crew.

  Those who stayed behind in the room talked animatedly about the new information as they attacked the food. Andrea spoke at length with Dr Harel and Tommy Eichberg while she wolfed down roast beef sandwiches and a couple of beers.

  ‘I’m glad your appetite is back, Andrea.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. Unfortunately, after each meal my lungs scream for nicotine.’

  ‘You’ll have to smoke on deck,’ said Tommy Eichberg. ‘Smoking inside the Behemoth is prohibited. As you know…’

  ‘Mr Kayn’s orders,’ all three chimed together, laughing.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in five minutes. I want to see if there’s anything stronger than beer on that cart.’

  17

  ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH

  RED SEA

  Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 9:41 p.m.

  On deck it was already dark. Andrea emerged from the passageway and walked slowly towards the front of the ship. She could have kicked herself for not wearing a sweater. The temperature had dropped quite a bit and a cold wind was blowing her hair around and making her shiver.

  She took a wrinkled pack of Camel cigarettes from one pocket of her jeans and a red lighter from another. It was nothing fancy, just a refillable one with flowers stamped on it, and had probably cost no more than seven euros in some department store, but it had been her first gift from Eva.

  Due to the wind, it took her ten attempts before she lit her cigarette. But once she had succeeded it was heavenly. Since she had boarded the Behemoth she had found it almost impossible to smoke because of her seasickness, and not through lack of trying.

  As she relished the sound of the bow cutting through the water, the young reporter searched her mind for anything she could remember about the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Copper Scroll of Qumran. There wasn’t much. Fortunately Professor Forrester’s assistants had promis
ed to give her a crash course so that she could write more clearly about the importance of the discovery.

  Andrea couldn’t believe her luck. The expedition was much better than she had imagined. Even if they didn’t succeed in finding the Ark, and Andrea felt certain they never would, her report on the second Copper Scroll and the discovery of part of the treasure would be enough to sell an article to any newspaper in the world.

  The most sensible thing would be to find an agent to sell the entire story. I wonder if it would be better to sell it as an exclusive to one of the giants like National Geographic or the New York Times, or to make a lot of sales to smaller outlets. I’m sure that kind of money would release me from all my credit card debt, Andrea thought.

  She took a last pull on her cigarette and went to the railing to throw it overboard. She trod carefully, recalling the incident that afternoon with low railing. As she raised her arm to toss the butt she saw a fleeting image of Dr Harel’s face reminding her that it was a bad thing to pollute the environment.

  Wow, Andrea. There’s hope, even for someone like you. Imagine, doing the right thing when no one’s looking, she thought as she stubbed out the cigarette against the wall and put the butt in the back pocket of her jeans.

  At that moment she felt someone grabbing her around the ankles and the world turned upside down. Her hands pawed the air trying to grab onto something, but with no success.

  As she fell, she thought she could see a dark figure watching her from the railing.

  A second later her body hit the water.

  18

  THE RED SEA

  Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 9:43 p.m.

  The first thing that Andrea felt was the cold water knifing through her extremities. She thrashed her arms around, trying to get back to the surface. It took her two seconds to realise that she didn’t know which way was up. The little air that she had in her lungs was running out. She let her breath out slowly to see which direction the bubbles travelled in, but in the total darkness it was useless. She was losing strength and her lungs were desperate for air. She knew that if she inhaled water she was dead. She gritted her teeth, swore not to open her mouth and tried to think.

  Fuck. It can’t be, not like this. It can’t end like this.

  She moved her arms again, trusting that she was swimming towards the surface, when she felt something powerful pulling at her.

  Suddenly her face was in the air again and she gasped. Someone was holding her up by the shoulder. Andrea tried to turn.

  ‘Easy does it! Breathe slowly!’ Father Fowler was yelling in her ear, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the ship’s propellers. Andrea was shocked to see how the force of the water was dragging them closer to the back of the ship. ‘Listen to me! Don’t turn yet or we’ll both die. Relax. Take off your shoes. Move your legs slowly. In fifteen seconds we’ll be in dead water from the ship’s wake. Then I’ll let you go. Swim away as hard as you can!’

  Andrea used her feet to slip off her shoes, all the while staring at the churning grey foam that could suck them to their deaths. They were barely forty feet from the propellers. She suppressed the impulse to break loose from Fowler and move in the opposite direction. Her ear-drums were ringing, and the fifteen seconds seemed like forever.

  ‘Now!’ Fowler screamed.

  Andrea felt the suction stop. She swam in the opposite direction to the propellers, away from their infernal drone. It was almost two minutes later when the priest, who had followed her closely, grabbed her arm.

  ‘We made it.’

  The young reporter turned her eyes towards the ship. It was now quite far away and she could only see one of its sides, which was illuminated by several searchlights aimed at the water. They had started hunting for them.

  ‘Fuck,’ Andrea said, as she struggled to stay afloat. Fowler grabbed her before she went completely under.

  ‘Relax. Let me hold you up like I did before.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Andrea repeated, spitting out saltwater while the priest supported her from behind in the standard rescue position.

  Suddenly a bright light blinded her. The powerful searchlights from the Behemoth had found them. The frigate came towards them then maintained its position close by as sailors shouted directions and pointed from the railings. Two of them tossed a couple of lifebelts in their direction. Andrea was exhausted and chilled to the bone now that her adrenalin and fear had subsided. The sailors threw them a line and Fowler pulled it around her under her arms, then knotted it.

  ‘How the devil did you manage to fall overboard?’ said the priest while they were being hauled up.

  ‘I didn’t fall, Father. I was pushed.’

  19

  ANDREA AND FOWLER

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t think I was going to make it.’

  Wrapped in a blanket and back on board, Andrea was still shivering. Fowler was sitting next to her, watching her with a preoccupied expression. The sailors left the deck, mindful of the prohibition against speaking to members of the expedition.

  ‘You have no idea how lucky we were. The propellers were turning very slowly. The Anderson turn, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I came out of my cabin to get some air and heard you taking your evening plunge, so I grabbed the nearest ship phone, yelled man overboard to port, and dove in after you. The ship had to make a complete circle, which is called the Anderson turn, but it should have been to port, not starboard.’

  ‘Because…?’

  ‘Because if the turn is made towards the side opposite where the person fell in, then they’ll be chopped into mincemeat by the propellers. That’s what almost happened to us.’

  ‘Somehow being turned into fish food wasn’t in my plans.’

  ‘Are you sure about what you told me before?’

  ‘As sure as I know my mother’s name.’

  ‘Did you see who pushed you?’

  ‘I only saw a dark shadow.’

  ‘Then if what you’re saying is true, the ship’s turning to starboard instead of port was no accident either…’

  ‘They might have misheard you, Father.’

  Fowler paused for a minute before answering.

  ‘Ms Otero, please don’t tell anyone about your suspicions. When you’re asked, just say you fell. If it’s true that someone on board is trying to kill you, to reveal it now…’

  ‘… would warn the bastard.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Fowler said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father. Those Armani shoes cost me two hundred euros,’ Andrea said, her lips still quivering slightly. ‘I want to catch the son of a bitch who sent them to the bottom of the Red Sea.’

  20

  TAHIR IBN FARIS’S APARTMENT

  AMMAN, JORDAN

  Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 1:32 a.m.

  Tahir entered his home in the dark, shaking with fear. An unfamiliar voice called to him from the living room.

  ‘Come in, Tahir.’

  It took the bureaucrat all of his courage to cross the hallway towards the small living room. He searched for the light switch, but it didn’t work. He then felt a hand grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to his knees. The voice came from the shadows somewhere in front of him.

  ‘You’ve sinned, Tahir.’

  ‘No. No, please, sir. I have always lived my life according to taqwa, to honesty. The westerners tempted me many times and I never gave in. This has been my only mistake, sir.’

  ‘So you say you are honest, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I swear to Allah.’

  ‘And yet you allowed the kafirun, the infidels, to own a piece of our land.’

  The one who was twisting his arm increased the pressure and Tahir gave a muffled scream.

  ‘Don’t scream, Tahir. If you love your family, do not scream.’

  Tahir brought his other arm up to his mouth and bit down hard on the sleeve of his jacket. The pressure continued to increase.

  There was a terri
ble dry crack.

  Tahir fell, crying in silence. His right arm hung from his body like a stuffed sock.

  ‘Bravo, Tahir. Congratulations.’

  ‘Please, sir. I followed your instructions. No one will go near the excavation zone for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anyway, nobody ever goes there.’

  ‘And the desert police?’

  ‘The nearest road is just a track around four miles away. The police only visit the area two or three times a year. When the Americans set up camp, they’ll be yours, I swear.’

  ‘Good, Tahir. You’ve done a good job.’

  At that point someone switched back the electricity and the lights came on in the living room. Tahir looked up from the floor and what he saw made his blood run cold.

  His daughter Myesha and his wife Zayna were tied up and gagged on the sofa. But that wasn’t what shocked Tahir. His family had been in the same condition when he’d left five hours before to carry out the hooded men’s demands.

  What filled him with terror is that the men no longer wore hoods.

  ‘Please, sir,’ Tahir said.

  The bureaucrat had returned in the hope that everything would be all right. That the bribe from his American friends wouldn’t be revealed, and that the hooded men would leave him and his family in peace. That hope had now evaporated like a drop of water on a red-hot frying pan.