‘Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and an opportunity to praise him with righteousness and honesty. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the sacred Quran, which says that even though someone may raise his hand against us to kill us, we shall not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are those of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the tortures of Hell, and bring him close to you, oh Lord of the Throne.’
After that, Nazim felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He had given everything for Allah. He allowed himself to be transported to such a state of peace that when he heard the police sirens in the distance he confused them with the sound of the crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear and it was the last thing he heard.
Minutes later, two uniformed policemen leaned over a young man dressed in a Washington Redskins jersey. His eyes were open, looking at the heavens.
‘Central, this is Unit Twenty-three. We have a ten fifty-four. Send an ambulance-’
‘Forget it. He didn’t make it.’
‘Central, cancel that ambulance for now. We’ll go ahead and rope off the crime scene.’
One of the officers looked at the young man’s face, thinking that it was a shame he’d died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son. But the man wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. He’d seen enough dead kids on Washington’s streets to carpet the Oval Office. Yet none of them wore the expression on this one’s face.
For a moment he thought of calling his partner to ask him why the hell this kid had such a peaceful smile. He didn’t do it, of course.
He was afraid of looking like a fool.
53
SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
Saturday, 15 July 2006. 2:06 a.m.
Orville Watson’s safe house and Albert’s apartment were almost twenty-five miles apart. Orville travelled the distance in the back seat of Albert’s Toyota, half asleep and semi-conscious, but at least his hands had been properly bandaged, thanks to the first-aid kit the priest carried in his car.
An hour later, dressed in a towelling bathrobe – the only thing of Albert’s that fit him – Orville swallowed several Tylenols with the orange juice the priest had brought him.
‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. This will help stabilise you.’
The only thing Orville wanted was to stabilise his body on a hospital bed, but given his limited options he decided he might as well stick with Albert.
‘Would you happen to have a Hershey’s bar?’
‘No, sorry. I can’t eat chocolate – it gives me pimples. But in a while I’ll go by a Seven Eleven to get something to eat, some extra large T-shirts, and maybe some candy if you want.’
‘Forget it. After what happened tonight I think I’m going to hate Hersheys for the rest of my life.’
Albert shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’
Orville pointed at the array of computers that cluttered Albert’s living room. On a table about twelve feet long sat ten monitors connected to a mass of cables as thick as an athlete’s thigh that ran along the floor next to the wall. ‘You have great equipment, Mr International Liaison,’ Orville said, speaking to relieve the tension. Observing the priest, he realised they were both in the same boat. His hands were shaking slightly and he seemed a little lost. ‘HarperEdwards System, with TINCom motherboards… That’s how you tracked me down, right?’
‘Your offshore in Nassau, the one you used to buy the safe house. It took me forty-eight hours to track down the server that stored the original transaction. Two thousand one hundred and forty-three steps. You’re good.’
‘You too,’ Orville said, impressed.
The two men looked at each other and nodded, recognising fellow hackers. For Albert, this brief moment of relaxation meant that the shock he had held at bay suddenly invaded his body like a group of hooligans. Albert didn’t make it to the bathroom. He vomited into a bowl of popcorn he had left on the table the night before.
‘I’ve never killed anybody before. That kid… I didn’t even notice the other one because I had to act, I shot without thinking. But the kid… he was just a baby. And he looked me in the eye.’
Orville didn’t say anything, because there was nothing he could say.
They stood like that for ten minutes.
‘I understand him now,’ the young priest finally said.
‘Who?’
‘A friend of mine. Someone who’s had to kill, and who’s suffered because of it.’
‘Are you talking about Fowler?’
Albert eyed him suspiciously.
‘How do you know that name?’
‘Because this whole mess began when Kayn Industries contracted my services. They wanted to know about Father Anthony Fowler. And I can’t help noticing that you’re also a priest.’
This made Albert even more nervous. He grabbed Orville by the bathrobe.
‘What did you say to them?’ he shouted. ‘I have to know!’
‘I told them everything,’ Orville said flatly. ‘His training, that he was connected to the CIA, to the Holy Alliance…’
‘Oh God! Do they know his real mission?’
‘I don’t know. They asked me two questions. The first was, who is he? The second: who would matter to him?’
‘What did you find out? And how?’
‘I didn’t find out anything. I would have given up if I hadn’t received an anonymous envelope containing a photo and the name of a reporter: Andrea Otero. A note in the envelope said Fowler would do anything to make sure she wasn’t harmed.’
Albert let go of Orville’s robe and began pacing around the room as he tried to piece it all together.
‘Everything is starting to make sense… When Kayn went to the Vatican and told them he had a clue to finding the Ark, that it could be in the hands of an old Nazi war criminal, Cirin promised to put his best man on the case. In exchange, Kayn had to take a Vatican observer on the expedition. By giving you Otero’s name, Cirin made sure that Kayn would allow Fowler to be part of the expedition because then Cirin could control him through Otero, and that Fowler would accept the mission in order to protect her. Manipulative son of a bitch,’ Albert said, restraining a smile that was half disgust, half admiration.
Orville looked at him with his mouth open.
‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’
‘That’s lucky for you: if you did then I’d have to kill you. Only joking. Listen, Orville, I didn’t rush out to save your life because I’m an agent with the CIA. I’m not. I’m just a simple link in the chain, doing a favour for a friend. And that friend is in serious danger, in part because of the report you gave Kayn about him. Fowler is in Jordan, on a crazy expedition to recover the Ark of the Covenant. And as strange as it might seem, the expedition may prove a success.’
‘Huqan,’ Orville said, barely audible. ‘I found something out by chance about Jordan and Huqan. I gave the information to Kayn.’
‘The guys at the Company retrieved that from your hard disks, but nothing else.’
‘I managed to find a mention of Kayn on one of the web-mail servers used by terrorists. Do you know much about Islamic terrorism?’
‘Only what I’ve read in the New York Times.’
‘Then we’re not even at square one. Here’s a crash course. The media’s high opinion of Osama Bin Laden, the villain in this film, makes no sense. Al Qaeda as a super-evil organisation doesn’t exist. There’s no head to chop off. The jihad doesn’t have a head. The jihad is a commandment from God. There are thousands of cells at different levels. They drive and inspire each other without having anything to do with each other.’
‘It’s impossible to fight against that.’
‘Exactly. It’s like trying to cure an illness. There isn’t a miracle cure, like the invasion of Iraq, or Lebanon, or of Iran. We can only produce white blood cells to kill the germs one by one.’
‘That’s your job.’
‘The problem
is that it’s not possible to infiltrate Islamic terrorist cells. They can’t be bribed. What motivates them is religion, or at least the twisted notion they have of it. You can understand that, I suppose.’
Albert’s expression was sheepish.
‘They use a different vocabulary,’ Orville went on. ‘It’s a language that’s too complex for this country. They can have dozens of different aliases, they use a different calendar… a westerner needs dozens of checks and mental codes for each piece of information. That’s where I come in. With one click of a mouse I’m right there, in between one of these fanatics and another three thousand miles away.’
‘The Internet.’
‘It looks much prettier on a computer screen,’ Orville said, caressing his flattened nose, which was now orange from the Betadine. Albert had tried to set the nose straight using a piece of cardboard and some tape, but he was aware that if he didn’t get Orville to a hospital soon, in a month they’d have to break the nose again to straighten it.
Albert thought for a moment.
‘So this Huqan, he was going to go after Kayn.’
‘I don’t remember too much, other than that the guy seemed pretty serious. The truth is that what I gave Kayn was raw information. I hadn’t had a chance to analyse anything in detail.’
‘Then…’
‘It was like a free sample, you know. You give them a little then sit back and wait. In time they’ll ask for more. Don’t look at me like that. People have to earn a living.’
‘We have to get that information back,’ Albert said, drumming his fingers on his armchair. ‘First, because the people who attacked you were worried about what you knew. And second, because if Huqan is part of the expedition-’
‘All my files have disappeared or been burned.’
‘Not all of them. There’s a copy.’
Orville was slow to understand what Albert meant.
‘No way. Don’t even joke about it. That place is impregnable.’
‘Nothing is impossible, except one thing – that I go another minute without eating,’ Albert said, picking up his car keys. ‘Try to relax. I’ll be back in half an hour.’
The priest was about to go out the door when Orville called to him. Just the idea of breaking into the fortress that was Kayn Tower was making Orville feel anxious. There was only one way to overcome his nerves.
‘Albert…?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve changed my mind about the chocolate.’
54
HUQAN
The imam was right.
He had told him that the jihad would enter his soul and his heart. He had warned him about the ones he called weak Muslims because they called true believers radicals.
‘You cannot be afraid of how other Muslims will feel about what we do. God did not prepare them for the task. He didn’t temper their hearts and souls with the fire that is within us. Let them think that Islam is a religion of peace. That helps us. It weakens the defences of our enemies; it creates holes through which we can penetrate. Cracks.’
He felt it. He could hear the screams in his heart that were only mumblings on others’ lips.
He felt it for the first time when he was asked to be a leader in the jihad. He was asked because he had special talent. Gaining the respect of his brothers had not been easy. He had never been in the fields of Afghanistan or Lebanon. He had not followed the orthodox path, and still the Word had clung to the deepest part of his being like a vine to a young tree.
It happened outside the city, in a warehouse. Some brothers were holding another who had let the temptations of the outside world interfere with God’s commandments.
The imam had told him he must remain firm, prove himself worthy. All eyes would be watching him.
On the way to the warehouse he had bought a hypodermic needle and bent the end of it lightly against the car door. He was supposed to go in and talk with the traitor, with the one who wanted to embrace the comforts that they had been called to erase from the face of the Earth. His job was to convince him of his error. Completely naked, his hands and feet tied, the man was sure to listen.
Instead of talking, he had walked into the warehouse, gone directly to the traitor and plunged the bent syringe into the man’s eye. Ignoring the screams, he had yanked out the syringe, lacerating the eye. Without waiting, he had then stabbed the other eye and pulled.
Not even five minutes had passed before the traitor was begging them to kill him. Huqan smiled. The message had been clear. His job was to cause pain and make those who went against God want to die.
Huqan. Syringe.
That day he had earned his name.
55
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Saturday, 15 July 2006. 12:34 p.m.
‘A white Russian, please.’
‘You surprise me, Ms Otero. I imagined you would drink a Manhattan, something more trendy and post-modern,’ Raymond Kayn said, smiling. ‘Let me mix it myself. Thank you, Jacob.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ said Russell, who didn’t seem too happy about leaving the old man alone with Andrea.
‘Relax, Jacob. I’m not going to jump on Ms Otero. That is, unless she wants me to.’
Andrea realised she was blushing like a schoolgirl. As the billionaire made the drink, she took in her surroundings. Three minutes before, when Jacob Russell had come to the infirmary to get her, she’d been so nervous her hands were shaking. After a couple of hours spent correcting, polishing, then rewriting her questions, she had ripped out the five pages from her notebook, crushed them into a ball, and stuck them in a pocket. That man wasn’t normal and she wasn’t going to ask him the normal questions.
When she entered Kayn’s tent she had begun to doubt her decision. The tent was divided into two rooms. One was a kind of foyer in which Jacob Russell obviously worked. It contained a desk, a laptop, and, as Andrea had suspected, a shortwave radio.
So that’s how you keep in touch with the ship… I thought you wouldn’t be disconnected like the rest of us.
To the right, a thin curtain separated the foyer from Kayn’s room, proof of the symbiosis between the young assistant and the old man.
I wonder how far these two take their relationship? There’s something I don’t trust about our friend Russell, with his metrosexual attitude and his self- importance. I wonder if I should hint at something like that in the interview.
As she’d come through the curtain, she’d discerned a light aroma of sandalwood. A simple bed – But definitely more comfortable than the inflatable mattresses we’re sleeping on – took up one side of the room. A smaller version of the toilet/shower that the rest of the expedition used, a small desk without papers – and no visible computer – a small bar and two chairs completed the furniture. Everything was white. A pile of books as tall as Andrea was threatening to tip over if anyone came too close. She was attempting to read the titles when Kayn appeared and came straight over to greet her.
Up close he seemed taller than when Andrea had caught a glimpse of him on the rear deck of the Behemoth. Five feet, seven inches of shrivelled-up flesh, white hair, white clothes, bare feet. Still, the overall effect was oddly youthful, until you took a closer look at his eyes, two blue holes surrounded by bags and wrinkles that put his age back in perspective.
He didn’t extend his hand, leaving Andrea’s hanging in the air as he regarded her with a smile that was more of an apology. Jacob Russell had already warned her that under no circumstances should she try touching Kayn, but she wouldn’t have been true to herself if she hadn’t tried. In any case, it gave her a certain advantage. The billionaire obviously felt a bit self-conscious as he offered Andrea the cocktail. The reporter, true to her profession, wasn’t about to turn down a drink, no matter the time of day.
‘You can learn a great deal about a person by what they drink,’ Kayn said now, handing her the glass. He kept his fingers near the top, leaving Andrea plenty of room to take it with
out touching him.
‘Really? And what does a White Russian say about me?’ Andrea asked as she took a seat and had her first sip.
‘Let’s see… a sweet blend, plenty of vodka, coffee liqueur, cream. It tells me that you like to drink, that you can hold your liquor, that you’ve spent a while finding what you like, that you’re attentive to your surroundings, and that you’re demanding.’
‘Excellent,’ Andrea said, with some irony, her best defence when she was unsure of herself. ‘You know what? I’d say that you had me investigated beforehand and knew perfectly well what I like to drink. You don’t find a bottle of fresh cream in just any portable bar, let alone one that belongs to an agoraphobic billionaire who rarely has visitors, especially in the middle of the Jordanian desert, and who, from what I can see, drinks Scotch and water.’
‘Well, now I’m the one who’s surprised,’ said Kayn, his back to the reporter as he poured his own drink.
‘That’s as close to the truth as the difference in our bank balances, Mr Kayn.’
The billionaire turned to her, frowning, but did not reply.
‘I would say that this has been more of a test, and I gave you the answer you expected,’ Andrea went on. ‘Now, please tell me why you’re granting me this interview.’
Kayn took the other chair but avoided Andrea’s gaze.
‘It was part of our agreement.’
‘I think I’ve asked the wrong question. Why me?’
‘Ah, the curse of the g’vir, of the rich man. Everybody wants to know his hidden motives. Everyone supposes he has an agenda, even more so when he’s Jewish.’
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 21
