‘I understand. Do you have a vector?’ said the harbourmaster, now clearly worried.
‘It left the Sinai desert a few hours ago. I think it’s just going to graze Aqaba, but it will feed on the currents there and explode over your central desert. You’ll have to call everyone so they can relay the message.’
‘I know how the network works, Jawar. Thank you.’
‘Just make sure that nobody sails before tonight, OK? If not, you’ll be collecting mummies in the morning.’
84
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Thursday, 20 July 2006. 11:07 a.m.
David Pappas pushed the head of the drill through the opening for the last time. They had just finished drilling a slit in the wall some six feet wide and three and a half inches high, and thanks to the Everlasting the ceiling of the chamber on the other side of the wall had not collapsed, although there had been a slight tremor caused by the vibrations. They could now remove the rocks by hand without having to break them apart. Lifting them and setting them aside was another matter, since there were quite a few.
‘It’s going to take another two hours, Mr Kayn.’
The billionaire had come down into the cave half an hour earlier. He had stood in the corner with both hands behind his back, as he often did, simply watching and seemingly relaxed. Raymond Kayn had been afraid of the descent into the hole, but only in a rational way. He had spent the entire night preparing himself mentally, and had not felt the usual fear gripping his chest. His pulse had raced, but no more than usual for a sixty-eight-year-old man who had been strapped into a harness and lowered into a cavern for the first time.
I don’t understand why I feel so good. Is it being close to the Ark that is making me feel like this? Or is it this narrow uterus, this hot well that soothes me and suits me?
Russell approached him and whispered that he had to go and fetch something from his tent. Kayn nodded, distracted by his own thoughts, but proud to have freed himself from his dependence on Jacob. He loved him like a son, and was grateful for his sacrifice, but he could hardly recall a minute when Jacob was not on the other side of the room, ready to offer a helping hand or a piece of advice. How patient the young man had been with him.
If it hadn’t been for Jacob, none of this could ever have happened.
85
Transcript of the communication between the crew of the Behemoth and Jacob Russell
20 July 2006
MOSES 1: Behemoth, Moses 1 here. Do you read me?
BEHEMOTH: Behemoth. Good morning, Mr Russell.
MOSES 1: Hello, Thomas. How are you?
BEHEMOTH: You know, sir. A lot of heat, but I think those of us born in Copenhagen can never get enough of it. How can I help?
MOSES 1: Thomas, Mr Kayn needs the BA-609 in a half-hour. We have to make an emergency pick-up. Tell the pilot to carry the maximum payload of fuel.
BEHEMOTH: Sir, I’m afraid that is going to be impossible. We’ve just received a communication from the Aqaba harbourmaster informing us that a giant sandstorm is moving across the area between the port and your location. They’ve suspended all air traffic until 1800 hours.
MOSES 1: Thomas, I’d like you to clarify something for me. Does the side of your ship bear the insignia of the port of Aqaba or of Kayn Industries?
BEHEMOTH: Kayn Industries, sir.
MOSES 1: I thought so. Another thing. Did you happen to hear me when I told you the name of the person who requires the BA-609?
BEHEMOTH: Hmm, yes, sir. Mr Kayn, sir.
MOSES 1: Very well, Thomas. Then please be so kind as to follow the orders I have given you, or you and the entire crew of that tub will be out of a job within the month. Have I made myself clear?
BEHEMOTH: Perfectly clear, sir. The aircraft will be heading your way immediately.
MOSES 1: Always a pleasure, Thomas. Over and out.
86
H UQAN
He began by praising the name of Allah the Wise, the Holy, the Compassionate, the one who would let him triumph over his enemies. He did so kneeling on the floor, dressed in a white robe that covered his entire body. In front of him was a basin of water.
To make sure that the water reached the skin below the metal, he removed the ring inscribed with the date when he had finished his studies. It had been a gift from the brotherhood. He then washed both of his hands up to the wrists, concentrating on the areas between his fingers.
He cupped his right hand, the one which under no circumstances had ever been used to touch his private parts, and scooped up some water, then vigorously rinsed out his mouth three times.
Once again he collected water in his hand, brought it to his nose and inhaled forcefully in order to cleanse his nostrils. He repeated the ritual three times. With his left hand he cleaned out the remaining water, sand and mucus.
Using his left hand again, he moistened his fingertips and cleaned the tip of his nose.
He lifted his right hand and held it in front of his face, then lowered it in order to dip it into the basin and cleaned his face from his right ear to his left ear three times.
Then from his forehead to his throat three times.
He removed his watch and vigorously washed both forearms, first the right and then the left, from wrist to elbow.
Wetting the palms of his hands, he rubbed his head from the forehead to the back of his neck.
He placed his wet index fingers inside his ears, washing behind the ears and then the lobes with his thumbs.
Finally, he washed both feet up to the ankles, beginning with his right foot and making sure to wash between the toes.
‘Ash hadu an la ilaha illa Allah wahdahu la shariika lahu wa anna Muhammadan ’abduhu wa rasuluh,’ he recited fervently, stressing the central tenet of his faith that there is no God but Allah, who has no equals, and that Mohammed is his servant and Messenger.
That concluded the ritual of ablution, which would mark the beginning of his life as a declared warrior of the Jihad. Now he was ready to kill and die for the greater glory of Allah.
He grasped the pistol, allowing himself a brief smile. He could hear the plane’s engines. It was time to give the signal.
With a solemn gesture, Russell left the tent.
87
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Thursday, 20 July 2006. 1:24 p.m.
The pilot of the BA-609 was Howell Duke. In twenty-three years of flying he had logged 18,000 hours in various types of aircraft under all possible weather conditions. He had survived a blizzard in Alaska and an electrical storm in Madagascar. But he had never felt true fear, that cold sensation that made your nuts shrivel up and your throat go dry.
Until today.
He was flying in a cloudless sky with optimum visibility, squeezing every last drop of horsepower from his engines. The plane wasn’t the fastest or the best he had piloted, but it certainly was the most amusing. It could reach a velocity of 315 miles per hour and then hover majestically in place like a cloud. Everything was going perfectly.
He lowered his eyes to check on the altitude, the fuel gauge, and the distance to his destination. When he looked up again his mouth fell open. There was something on the skyline that had not been there before.
At first it looked like a wall of sand one hundred feet high and a couple of miles wide. Given the few landmarks in the desert, Duke thought at first that what he was seeing was still. Slowly, he realised that it was moving, and it was doing so quickly.
I see the canyon up ahead. Fuck. Thank God this didn’t happen ten minutes ago. It must be the simoon they warned me about.
He would need at least three minutes to land the plane, and the wall was less than twenty-five miles away. He made a quick calculation. It would take the simoon another twenty minutes to reach the canyon. He pressed the helicopter conversion mode and felt the motors slow down immediately.
At least it’s working. I’ll have time to s
et down this bird and squeeze myself into the smallest space I can find. If half the things they say about this thing are true…
Three and a half minutes later, the landing gear of the BA-609 was settling on the flat ground between the camp and the excavation. Duke cut the engine and for the first time in his life he didn’t bother to go through his final safety check but got out of the plane as if his pants were on fire. He glanced around but couldn’t see anyone.
I have to let everyone know. Inside that canyon they won’t see this thing until it’s thirty seconds away.
He ran towards the tents, although he wasn’t so sure that being inside a tent was the safest place to be. Suddenly a figure dressed in white was walking towards him. Before long he recognised who it was.
‘Hey, Mr Russell. I see you’ve gone native,’ Duke said, feeling nervous. ‘I hadn’t seen you-’
Russell was twenty feet away. At that moment the pilot noticed that Russell had a pistol in his hand and stopped in his tracks.
‘Mr Russell, what’s going on?’
The executive said nothing. He simply aimed at the pilot’s chest and fired three quick shots. He stood over the fallen body and fired three more times into the pilot’s head.
In a nearby cave, O heard the shots and alerted the group.
‘Brothers, that’s the signal. Let’s go.’
88
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Thursday, 20 July 2006. 1:39 p.m.
‘Are you drunk, Nest Three?’
‘Colonel, I repeat that Mr Russell just blew off the pilot’s head and then ran towards the excavation. What are your orders?’
‘Fuck. Does anyone have a visual on Russell?’
‘Sir, this is Nest Two. He’s climbing the platform. He’s dressed kind of strange. Should I fire a warning shot?’
‘Negative, Nest Two. Don’t do anything until we know more. Nest One, do you read me?’
‘…’
‘Nest One, do you read me?’
‘Nest One. Torres, pick up the fucking radio.’
‘…’
‘Nest Two, do you have a visual of Nest One?’
‘Affirmative, sir. I have a visual, but Torres isn’t there, sir.’
‘Shit! You two, don’t take your eyes off the entrance to the excavation. I’m on my way.’
89
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CANYON, TEN MINUTES BEFORE
The first sting had been on his calf, twenty minutes ago.
Fowler had felt a sharp pain, but luckily it didn’t last long, fading into a dull ache, more like a hard slap than the initial bolt of lightning.
The priest had planned to suppress any screams by gritting his teeth, but forced himself not to do so yet. He’d try that with the next sting.
The ants had gone no higher than his knees, and Fowler didn’t have the slightest idea if they knew what he was. He tried his best to seem like something that wasn’t edible or dangerous, and for both reasons there was one thing he could not do: move.
The next sting hurt a great deal more, maybe because he knew what would come next: the swelling in the area, the inevitability of it all, the feeling of helplessness.
After the sixth sting he lost count. Perhaps he had been stung twelve times, perhaps twenty. Not many more, but he couldn’t take it much longer. He had used up all his resources – gritting his teeth, biting his lips, flaring his nostrils wide enough for a truck to enter? At some point, feeling desperate, he had even risked twisting his wrists in the handcuffs.
The worst thing was not knowing when the next sting would come. Up to that point he had been lucky, since most of the ants had gone half a dozen feet to his left and only a couple of hundred covered the ground beneath him. But he knew that at the slightest movement they would attack.
He needed to concentrate on something other than the pain, or he would go against his better judgement and start trying to crush the insects with his boots. Maybe he’d even manage to kill a few, but it was clear that they had the numerical advantage and in the end he would lose.
A new sting was the last straw. The pain ran up his legs and exploded in his genitals. He was on the verge of losing his mind.
Strangely, it was Torres who saved him.
‘Padre, your sins are attacking you. One by one, just like they eat away the soul.’
Fowler looked up. The Colombian was standing almost thirty feet away, watching him with an amused expression on his face.
‘I got tired of being up there, you know, so I came back to see you in your own private Hell. Look, this way we won’t be disturbed,’ he said, turning off the walkie-talkie with his left hand. In the right hand, he was holding a rock about the size of a tennis ball. ‘Now, where were we?’
The priest was grateful that Torres was there. It gave him someone to focus his hatred on. Which in turn would buy him a few more minutes of remaining still, a few more minutes of life.
‘Oh, yes,’ Torres went on. ‘We were trying to work out if you were going to make the first move or if I was going to make it for you.’
He threw the rock and hit Fowler on the shoulder. The stone tumbled over to where most of the ants were massing, once more the pulsating lethal swarm that was ready to attack whatever it was that threatened their home.
Fowler closed his eyes and attempted to control the pain. The rock had hit him in the same place a psychopathic killer had shot him sixteen months before. The whole area still hurt at night, and now he felt as if he were reliving the whole ordeal. He tried to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder to block out the ache in his legs, using a trick that an instructor had taught him what seemed a million years ago: the brain can only handle one sharp pain at a time.
When Fowler opened his eyes again and saw what was happening behind Torres, he had to make an even bigger effort to control his emotions. If he betrayed himself for one moment, he was finished. Andrea Otero’s head had appeared from behind the dune that lay just past the exit to the canyon where he was being held prisoner by Torres. The reporter was very close, and without doubt in a few moments she would see them, if she hadn’t already done so.
Fowler understood that he had to make absolutely sure that Torres didn’t turn around to look for another rock. He decided to give the Colombian what the soldier least expected.
‘Please, Torres. Please, I beg you.’
The expression on the Colombian’s face changed completely. Like all killers, few things excited him more than the control he thought he had over his victims when they began to beg.
‘What are you begging for, Padre?’
The priest had to force himself to concentrate and find the right words. Everything depended on making sure that Torres didn’t turn around. Andrea had seen them, and Fowler was sure that she was close, although he’d lost sight of her because Torres’s body was blocking the way.
‘I’m begging for my life. My miserable life. You’re a soldier, a real man. Compared to you I’m nothing.’
The mercenary was smiling broadly, revealing his yellowish teeth. ‘Well said, Padre. And now-’
Torres never got a chance to finish his sentence. He didn’t even feel the blow.
Andrea, who had had a chance to take in the scene as she drew near, had decided not to use the pistol. Remembering what a bad shot she had been with Alryk, the most she could hope for was that a stray bullet wouldn’t find Fowler’s head the same way one had hit the tyre of the Hummer earlier. Instead, she pulled the windscreen wipers out of her makeshift umbrella. Holding the steel pipe like a baseball bat, she crept forward slowly.
The pipe wasn’t too heavy, so she had to choose her line of attack carefully. Only a few steps behind him, she decided to aim for the side of his head. She could feel the sweat on the palm of her hands, and prayed that she wouldn’t screw this up. If Torres turned around she was fucked.
He didn’t. Andrea planted her feet firmly on the ground, swung her weapon and hit Torres with all her s
trength on the side of his head near the temple.
‘Take that, you bastard!’
The Colombian dropped into the sand like a stone. The mass of red ants must have felt the vibration because immediately they turned and headed for his fallen body. Unaware of what had happened, he started to get up. Still semi-conscious from the blow to his temple, he staggered and fell again as the first ants reached his body. When he felt the first stings, Torres brought his hands to his eyes in absolute terror. He tried to get up on to his knees but this provoked the ants even more and they swarmed over him in greater numbers. It was as if they were passing on a message to each other through their pheromones.
Enemy.
Kill.
‘Run, Andrea!’ Fowler yelled. ‘Get away from them.’
The young reporter took several steps back, but very few ants turned to follow the vibrations. They were more concerned with the Colombian, who was covered in them from head to toe, howling in agony, every fibre of his body under attack from the sharp jaws and needle-like stings. Torres managed to stand up again and take a few steps, the ants covering him like a strange skin.
He took one more step, then fell, and didn’t get up again.
Andrea, in the meantime, had retreated to the place where she had dropped the wipers and the shirt. She wrapped the wipers in the cloth. Then, making a wide detour around the ants, she approached Fowler and lit the shirt with her lighter. When the shirt was burning she traced a circle with it on the ground around the priest. The few ants that hadn’t joined the attack on Torres scurried away from the heat.
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 30
