I nodded reluctantly. “You have a point, Holmes.”
“I always do, Watson, I always do.
“However, this is indeed an opportune time to discuss certain matters with Professor Moriarty before we depart. We may never see him again. He will be either in a grave near the tomb of a Pharaoh or will be back in Paris, planning further outrages.”
We announced the plan to our party. The Tuaregs appreciated the novelty of the idea. Two men were assigned to take Professor Moriarty and Father Ciasca about ten miles to the north along the Nile and to leave them there with absolutely nothing but their clothes and food for just a day. Professor Moriarty did not respond. Father Ciasca did not seem to understand and had a puzzled look. He asked for a cigarette which was given him.
Holmes called Father Ciasca aside.
“Ah, Father, you do anticipate difficulty in returning to the Holy See, perhaps?”
Father Ciasca appeared to be surprised.
“Yes, Signore Holmes, the Pope will be disappointed.”
Holmes puffed at his pipe.
“Do I refer to that or to something else? Do you think the police might await your arrival?”
Father Ciasca tilted his head quizzically.
“I see that you are left-handed.”
Father Ciasca glanced down at his left hand.
“The Italian police await you in Rome, Father Ciasca.”
“Why should they? I have committed no crime.” Father Ciasca was indignant.
“Indeed? Well, they will have a different view. They will charge you, Father Ciasca, with the murder of Antonio Rozzi in his office at the museum in Venice.”
I was unprepared for this blandly delivered statement.
For a fraction of a moment, Father Ciasca’s eyes hardened.
“I deny it. You have no proof.” His voice was rather melodious.
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“Let us stop this pretence of being a holy man on a mission, shall we, Father? I am quite sure that you visited his office, with the intent of persuading him to part with the translation of the manuscript. I know this because I did ask the guards if they recalled who had visited Antonio Rozzi over the past few days, and your name came up, though I did not know you then. I believe he refused to give it to you, because, after all, he had given it to me. I know you opposed the Pope consulting Lord Dufferin; in fact, Antonio Rozzi told me so. And, my dear sir, when you smoke cigarettes, holding them with the fingers of your left hand, you certainly suggest that you are left-handed. But I have better proof. The fact that Rozzi was hit on the left side of his head and he fell forward. Perhaps you were pretending to look at the view from his office window and surprised him from behind. Most cowardly. And then the luxury of a cigarette while in his office. Complacence! I know that ash—and that flavour! Perique tobacco from Louisiana, an absolute rarity! I recognized it in Antonio Rozzi’s office. It is no coincidence that you smoke cigarettes with that tobacco, as I have been observing. Have you read my monograph on tobacco ashes? No? Tut. In any case, I took the precaution of writing from Tamanrasset to my friend Lestrade about my conjectures, and he in turn, would have certainly informed the Italian authorities and the Vatican. I guarantee that you are expected.”
We turned away from Father Ciasca. His face was expressionless.
As the groups prepared, Sherlock Holmes invited Professor Moriarty for a stroll along the verdant banks of the Nile. I watched from afar as the two adversaries conversed as old friends.
I spoke to Holmes later and this is the paraphrasing of the conversation that he said took place.
We walked down to the Nile. It was Professor Moriarty who began the conversation.
“I compliment you, Holmes. Your solution is most brilliant. I shall soon be dead by my own hands, in a manner of speaking.”
“You certainly see that I am challenging you.”
Moriarty waved his cane in the air impatiently.
“A challenge? This is hardly a sporting duel. Only a young fool would consider it so! I believe your logic is outstanding. It is in fact an unequal battle. You send two men of indifferent health into an unknown territory. I am not afraid. But I am not stupid either. We lack the strength and the resourcefulness to survive in such conditions. I would venture to say that it is similarly logical to conclude that you have won and that I have lost. There is no chance at all that I shall reach Paris. Yes, death is certain and is absolutely guaranteed. The game is over. I congratulate you.”
Holmes smiled. “Had I been in your place I would not say anything that conclusive. But be that as it may, I wonder if we may discuss a few situations in the past where we have been adversaries?”
“By all means.”
“The case of the Amsterdam Dutch masters. The tall nun in the cloister…?”
“Obviously. She is excellent. One of my best.”
“The kidnapping of the Italian chef at Café Gondola in Brussels?”
“It was Lafarge, as you guessed.”
“But the matter at Geneva?”
“A distraction by Phillips. It was intelligent of you to travel to Basel, but everyone had left by the time you reached. You were late.”
“What was the point of the blackmail of the member of Parliament? I knew he was the thief.”
“We knew about his interests in the South Africa mines. That was the only point you overlooked?”
“I did not. I did send someone to Johannesburg to institute inquiries.”
“Creditable. Well, that was a draw then.”
“Perhaps I won, because it was a draw. But if I may ask, who told you about the manuscript? The Guardians?”
“Of course. Be logical, man.”
“The Royal Family. Who? I shall guess ______.”
“Correct, and the ______.”
“Creditable. I commend you. I disagree with your objectives but your penetration has been more than I guessed.”
“That is why I am who I am and you are who you are.”
“Brave words.”
“I won many battles. This important one, I lost. And so the war.”
“Why this?”
“Humanity is insufferable. They must be controlled, manipulated.”
“They are already.”
“I knew you would agree.”
“Not completely. Men with free will roam the streets.”
“Fireflies.”
“The streets are lit, however dim.”
“Mere poetry.”
“But human. Well, I see your escorts are ready. I must bid you good-bye.”
“I may soon be part of sand but sand is eternal. That is eternal life perhaps, eh, Holmes?”
“Yes, for once I agree. That which we feel has no life actually endures, watching life and death. Good-bye, Professor Moriarty.”
“Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes.”
He walked away shakily, using his cane. He still seemed confident and in command.
Professor Moriarty then mounted his horse with the help of a couple of men, as did Father Ciasca. The Tuareg escorts waited for a signal from Holmes. They were ready to go. Father Ciasca had suddenly become quite pious and had clasped his hands and closed his eyes. He head was turned toward the sky and he was muttering a prayer, it appeared.
Holmes waved at the departing men.
Professor Moriarty halted briefly and pointed his cane at Holmes.
“And Holmes, some information as a farewell gift…” he shouted.
“Yes?”
“The president of ____ is my man. I know you do not know.”
He kicked the sides of his horse and the small team moved on. There was something harshly beautiful about the scene. Three Tuaregs leading two men to their death, moving single-file through the sands with the Nile’s shadow enveloping them. At a distance s
ome pyramids added a charming touch. I almost smelled frankincense.
***
We returned to Khartoum from an inexplicable and singular journey. From the point where we bid good-bye to Professor Moriarty so that he could proceed on his final journey (certainly a phrase with more than one meaning!), we simply followed the bends of the Nile. After a few days, we suddenly found ourselves close to Omdurman. Holmes maintained a stoic silence throughout. We were subdued, unsure about how to explain the events to the khalifa or anyone else.
***
We reached the court of the khalifa at Omdurman and presented ourselves. The khalifa was very pleased to see to us return. It appeared that he was very preoccupied with several issues of statecraft, not the least being the question of the Italians hectoring him from Eritrea.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, though not with a great deal of interest.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” said Father Bąkiewicz. “But we decided that the place is sacred for the Sudanese and we should not proceed. The core of your culture should be kept undisturbed. We had an encounter with some bandits but we prevailed, and in fact, brought back some prisoners.”
“Well, I am glad you finished your little adventure. I must consult you on some pressing matters.”
To our relief, the khalifa did not show much more interest in our trip to Napata, as he really wanted to speak to Holmes about the problems he was facing from his adversaries beyond the borders of Sudan. We learned that he was busy assembling his soldiers and the four assigned to us were immediately sent away to the Eritrean border, where all were killed almost immediately in a one of the endless skirmishes being reported from there.
The captured Italian soldiers were taken away and, given the general atmosphere of hostility toward the country, were summarily executed. Perhaps Father Ciasca was luckier than he realized.
“By the way,” said the khalifa, “at about the time you left for Napata, we apprehended some spies who came on a boat to Sawākin and were moving into Sudan. We executed all of them except two men—an Indian man and his Moroccan lieutenant. Perhaps you can meet them. I do not understand what they want. Maybe they would be of some use before I put them to death.”
***
Father Bąkiewicz had to perforce spend a number of days in close consultation with the khalifa, who had taken a strong liking for him. The khalifa did not hide his equally strong dislike for the British and the Italians and his determination to throw them out of Egypt by appealing to the religious sentiments of the masses—he was, in any case, in a state of jihad, first declared by the Mahdi. Father Bąkiewicz found himself in a piquant position, and so offered specific advice only when asked. But it was he who gave the khalifa a brilliant stratagem vis-à-vis Ethiopia, which I am still unable to speak of as I have been sworn to secrecy. The fact that the stratagem proved unnecessary later is irrelevant; a certain key assumption proved invalid. But its strength and clarity endeared Father Bąkiewicz to the khalifa even more.
Father Bąkiewicz and I were finally able to meet the two prisoners that the khalifa had referred to earlier.
The new chief of security, whose name I do not recollect, escorted us to a dungeon in a building close to the khalifa’s palace in Omdurman.
I still shudder when I recall the stinking horror of that place, filled with men doomed to rot for years. Windowless cells, unsanitary conditions to the extreme, no access to water, unending torture by the guards—I could not have imagined a more ghastly place. But Father Bąkiewicz did not turn a hair.
In a dark cell behind bars, sat Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya, the descendant of the great traveller Ibn Batuta. With him was Boughaid Arroub, his lieutenant.
“Koya? I am Father Bąkiewicz. And this is my colleague Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski.”
The man looked at us dully from the dark cell. I was almost gagging with the unendurable stench of the place.
“I am sorry to see you here,” said Father Bąkiewicz. “I know who you are.”
“And I know who you are. But what does it matter?” said Koya in a low flat voice. “All is lost. I look forward to my death. They have killed everyone except us.”
“Was all this worth it?”Father Bąkiewicz asked gently.
“Had I known my ultimate fate, no. I should have lived my life as a spice merchant in the Malabar. I should not have come searching for treasure. I thought I would see Mecca on my way back to my country. I will not. I have a wife and a sister. I have a son I have not seen. And never will.” The man’s despair was deeply moving. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see two extremely emaciated men, well on their way to certain death.
Father Bąkiewicz was silent for an extended period. Perhaps he was struggling with emotion. I certainly was.
“How is it that you are here?” he asked.
“Boughaid,” said Koya wearily, gesturing to his companion and asking him to respond.
“After we missed you at Timbuktu, we went to Gao, hoping to trap you there. But you were cleverer than us and went away toward Kidal. We had no ability to travel there, so we decided to travel south to the sea and then take a ship down to the Horn of Africa and then up again to Aden and Alexandria. We got off at Sawākin. Unfortunately for us, the khalifa’s soldiers apprehended us as we started moving inward and suspected us of being spies. We had no opportunity to explain. We seemed very alien. All were killed except the two of us. We have been here for several days. I hope to die very soon. Can you request the khalifa to have me executed immediately? Can you?” The man was distraught.
“I am very sorry.”
“Koya, let me also tell you that what you seek does not exist. It is a waste of time.” said Father Bąkiewicz.
I could not tell if the man inside shrugged his shoulders. In the dark silence, I could only hear laboured breathing; a particular cadence that I knew so well. My heart sank.
“I no longer seek it. I never knew what it was when I set out to look.” Koya’s voice was a whisper. It was clear that the act of speech was draining him of whatever little physical strength he had left.
“Wait!” said Father Bąkiewicz, with considerable feeling. “I shall try to help you.”
We left that hell and returned to the khalifa’s palace. Father Bąkiewicz sought an audience and was immediately granted one.
“Your Excellency. The men you hold are not spies.”
“Who? Oh, those two men. Why do you say so?” inquired the khalifa.
“He is a spice merchant from India. The other man is his guard. It has been a terrible misunderstanding. They meant no harm.”
The khalifa turned to his new chief of security (whose name escapes me). “What do you say?”
“It is possible,” he shrugged. “It is true that we have not found anything on them. But that does not mean they are not guilty. I would prefer to interrogate them for some more days.”
“Your Excellency, your reputation as a fair and compassionate ruler is well-known,” said Father Bąkiewicz. “This is the time to win more friends. I repeat: these two men mean no harm. I appeal to you to release them. I will personally escort them outside your kingdom and shall be their guarantor.”
“Hmm.” The khalifa deliberated silently.
“My attentions are needed elsewhere,” he eventually said. “If you are willing to take personal responsibility, then it is fine. Ismail, what do you feel?” he asked the chief of security.
“Yes, Your Excellency. But when are you leaving, Father?”
“With the khalifa’s permission, immediately.”
The khalifa protested. “Immediately? No, I need your advice! You must stay!”
I held my breath.
“Your Excellency, I am flattered. But we have already taken advantage of your hospitality. I shall be your ambassador and speak about your compassion and wisdom. It is time for us t
o return to Poland and resume our work. I request your permission to leave. We shall always be in debt.”
The khalifa seemed visibly affected.
“I cannot hold an advisor against his will. Can you not stay for one more week and then leave? Will you return next year, perhaps?”
Father Bąkiewicz bowed. “I accept, Your Excellency.”
I was able to breathe again.
“But please release those two men. I shall tend to them. They need to regain their strength to leave.” Father Bąkiewicz was gently persistent.
The khalifa nodded. “You have a good heart and head, Father. You would have been a good advisor to my son. I agree.”
The two men were indeed released and brought to the Tuareg camp to the south of the city. Suffice to say that they were in a pitiable state and it took two complete days of my medical attention to bring them back to a condition where they could stand unaided. Hasso kept them under close guard as he was still suspicious of them; it was not necessary in my opinion, but I kept my counsel.
Father Bąkiewicz spent the week with the khalifa at Omdurman.
It was finally time to say good-bye. It was agreed that Father Bąkiewicz would return at the same time the next year if his health permitted.
The khalifa gave us several gifts, which I need not enumerate. Father Bąkiewicz (Holmes) donated everything to the British Museum on our return. But the gift that Father Bąkiewicz always treasured was a small poem written by his son and presented to him personally. There had been limited interaction with Omar, but I gather he knew that Father Bąkiewicz understood his personal tragedy and had influenced the khalifa in some way.
Since the average reader of my work tends to be impatient with poetry, preferring the morbid, I shall not supply the translation, but I may say that the words were extremely moving, touching upon humanity, friendship, justice, love, and duty. That poem is now amongst Father Bąkiewicz’ most valued possessions and I have observed him refer to it silently many times, especially at times when a problem was particularly complex.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 29
