by G. L. Baron
‘The data from the GPS to track down one of our cars… but I’ve already told the police.’
‘Who rented it? Did the police ask you?’
‘Of course they asked me…’ she replied angrily.
‘And did you provide them with the data requested…? The Japanese, I mean.’
‘What would you have done?’
The inspector smiled, eyes reduced to slits. Then he stared behind the girl, at the corner of the wall. ‘And what was the name of the lucky customer the Japanese so wanted to find?’
The young woman, who had learned that name by heart by constantly answering the same questions, told him without even pretending to think. ‘Manuel Cassini. He paid with a credit card.’
Sforza was not at all surprised. ‘Cassini. Poor fellow.’ He was the only one losing out, but as some say, it is the weaker species that succumb… The professor was just a meaningless extra in this affair. For what it was worth, however, the blonde had guaranteed that he would not be harmed. For a second, just before thinking back to his bank account, he hoped it was really so.
‘Well, then today is your lucky day,’ joked Nigel, pulling out his Ray-Bans from his jacket.
‘Why?’ she asked, her abundant cleavage propped against the counter.
‘Because someone has decided to solve the case. Does that CCTV camera work?’
*
Ten minutes later, Sforza was even more cheerful walking towards the Arc de Triomphe, with his cell phone in one hand and a photograph of the Japanese in the other. It was a black and white print but with good definition. He was recognizable: a petite, elegant figure, in his forties, with his black hair perfectly combed. He could also see the famous golden weapon, a beautiful Walther PPK.
‘Hello Fabien? Hello… I need an international arrest warrant. Yes, I am sending you a picture… No, we do not know the name. While you’re there, send the picture of the suspect to all the customs, main stations and European airports… let’s hope luck continues to be on our side.’
70
Dubai, January 5th. 4:57 p.m.
Manuel Cassini’s gilded prison glowed in the golden light of the sunset.
The professor was standing next to the glass wall, finally feeling stronger. The effect of the powerful anaesthetic they had given him the night before had completely faded. He could walk and move normally, but as he had imagined, the doors were locked.
The experiment – if one could call what he had just undergone an “experiment” – had lasted only a short time and was completed before noon. He had not felt any pain, and apart from a slight dizziness, had noticed nothing more. All they had done was simply connect him to some computers for a few minutes. Even before he could understand what was going on, he heard the reassuring words of the Japanese. ‘We’ve finished. You did well.’
Later, after having served him couscous and spiced wine, Julia had taken him back to his room and locked him inside.
She did not say a word, and it was not easy to imagine what she was thinking from her expression. There certainly was not any love in her eyes…
‘Is it all over?’ asked the professor spinning round like a top. African masks on the walls loomed over him threateningly and seemed to follow his every move.
He peered out the window. The scenery was breath-taking; beneath the skyscraper, he could see a huge sky blue fountain, and looking up, a tangle of highways that ran between ultra-modern skyscrapers. A little further on, he could see the sea mingling with the red streaked sky.
‘Is it all over?’ he asked again, obsessively. If things had gone as the Arab had hoped, then maybe it was really all over. As crazy as it was, he believed he understood the idea that had driven the Sheikh to kidnap him and take him to Dubai; he had been dragged there only because some of his memories could be transferred into the Arab’s brain.
The reason for those actions was even more foolish than the deeds themselves, like a bad science fiction movie: Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn was hoping to decipher the clues in the Divine Comedy and the sixteenth-century paintings, so that he could find the Templars’ treasure! Providing that there really were clues to decipher and treasures to be found…
He could not know whether the experiment had worked or not. In any case, he was certain about one thing: that jumble of flashbacks, the random phrases from Dante, those unrelated fragments, could have been used for anything, but not in deciphering a hypothetical map.
If the Sheikh had his – Cassini’s – information impressed in his mind, at best, he would be exhausted and disoriented. In the worst-case scenario, he would realize that he had done all this work for nothing; if there really was a code to decipher, he certainly would not be able to do so that way… not with the markers retrieved from his memory.
‘Now at least, he’ll believe me…’
Cassini moved towards a crystal cabinet placed near the door. It contained some editions of the Divine Comedy. He was quite knowledgeable on old books and had no trouble recognizing the most valuable; the pages were in excellent condition, though yellowed by time and damaged by some restored wormholes. The binding was in calf – typical of the early eighteenth century.
Next to it was another volume, smaller and certainly more recent. It was a beautiful miniature edition bound in calf leather, with the title and ornaments embossed in gold and a cream flyleaf. According to the information on the cover, Florence G. Barbera Editore, it would be around late nineteenth century or early twentieth century at the most.
‘Do you like it?’ the Sheikh’s voice synthesizer asked. He must have just entered.
Cassini looked up, surprised to see him there. Despite the imposing size of his wheel chair, he had not heard him coming. ‘The eighteenth century one is splendid! But if I had to choose, I would buy the miniature… just to have it with me, if someone interested in Dante happened to kidnap me.’ He did not smile.
‘I really like it too.’ The Sheikh pretended he had not heard the provocation and went on, ‘It is from 1898.’
The professor was silent, his expression grim. That was a very irritating start to the conversation, especially considering the fact that his persecutor was in front him – he who had wanted him kidnapped, that someone interested in Dante.
‘If you want it, it’s yours,’ Al Husayn croaked again, his face sagging and expressionless as always. ‘Consider it compensation for what you’ve gone through.’
‘It means you’re letting me go?’ asked Cassini, detached.
‘Yes!’
‘Have you finished your experiment?’ he inquired cautiously, with a hesitant voice. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’
The Arab was silent, his grey eyes staring at a point in space. ‘It’s over, professor. My time is nearly up, and unfortunately, what I expected to happen didn’t! The search is over… whether I like it or not.’
The professor looked at him. Was he telling the truth? He seemed to have aged ten years since this morning’s meeting. If he had to bet, he would have sworn he was not lying. ‘I thought that with my knowledge and with that of my colleagues’, you would be able to decipher the clues?’
Al Husayn did not answer, but he seemed to catch a glimpse of an eloquent reaction in his eyes.
Meanwhile, some images – probably called up by the Arab himself – began to slide on the wheelchair’s display: The Mona Lisa, The School of Athens, The Last Supper.
‘Have you considered the idea that you might be making a mistake? That there is no key to Dante and there is nothing to find in Iceland?’ objected Cassini.
The Sheikh was staring at the information that he had shown Eklöf a few days before – the one that seemed to follow the outline of the rivers Blákvísl and Jökulfall, like the humps of a camel.
‘No,’ he muttered finally, certain. ‘I haven’t considered the idea of being wrong… I know I’m right.’ He had the same grim expression on his face, but inside he was like a volcano about to erupt.
‘Unfortunately, I’m dyi
ng…’ he concluded. ‘And your knowledge was my last hope for survival.’ He knew his reasoning was correct, that he was right in interpreting the evidence he had before him. Yet, despite his efforts, the millions of dollars invested, the creation of a revolutionary technology, he could not prove it… and most of all, he could not get what he had wanted more than anything else in the world.
Cassini raised an eyebrow and suddenly understood: the spasmodic research in Iceland was not a treasure hunt for its own sake, a bored billionaire’s indulgence. For Al Husayn it was much more; an instinct that had prompted him to make difficult decisions and to use unusual methods.
For a moment, just for once, he felt sorry for him. He had a man sentenced to death before his eyes who had seen his last hope for life disappear.
At that point, the reason why he was here was perfectly clear. It was his last hope for survival. Perhaps it was too trivial a reason but it was a simple survival instinct.
He was looking for the source of life… that would cure every disease which he suffered from, deduced Cassini finally. He was looking for the Grail!
‘And I think it is there, somewhere on that island of ice…’ he said. ‘Even though I’m afraid I’ll never prove it in this lifetime.’
‘But this morning you spoke about four objects… not just one. Isn’t the Grail the cup from which Jesus drank at the Last Supper?’
‘There are many legends about the Grail, but there’s no precise historical evidence,’ remarked the Sheikh after a long reflection. He felt that the energy that had inspired him to move forward in the last few months was abandoning him. He knew he had no time left to devote to research. He had decided to reveal his secret to Cassini for that reason; he considered him to be an honest man, enlightened. It was right that the young man before him knew – a small compensation repaying him for the suffering endured.
‘The one you mentioned is one theory; another suggests it is the chalice in which Joseph of Arimathea collected the last drops of Christ’s blood after the crucifixion. And if not everyone agrees about what the Grail actually is, all agree on its extraordinary powers: the ability to heal from sickness and infuse life. According to some legends, it could give immortality.’
Immortality.
Is that what the Arab wanted? Or did he just simply want to recover from the debilitating illness that forced him into a wheelchair?
‘And the four objects?’ insisted the professor. ‘This morning you spoke about four objects, not a cup.’
‘It’s true. According to esoteric currents, developed mainly during the mid-nineteenth century, there could be four relics that make up the Grail: the cup itself, the spear, the sword and the plate.’
Cassini looked at the Sheikh, waiting for him to continue, but the man stared at the computer display. He seemed to be staring at a ship disappearing over the horizon.
While on the screen he could see the map of Iceland, the one with the x and the co-ordinates 64 ° 27 ' 11", which he had already seen that morning, suddenly Al Husayn began to speak: ‘The spear belonged to Longinus, the Soldier in charge of verifying if Christ was actually dead on the cross; while the sword symbolizes the brave knights, and is the one, according to the legend, that was used to behead John the Baptist. The plate is engraved with a pentagram, a five-pointed star.’
The professor said no more because the door behind the Sheikh opened in that instant. It was Julia, with her head covered by a black veil and a walkie-talkie in hand. ‘The car is ready,’ she said to the Sheikh, without even deigning to look at Cassini.
‘Open the cabinet and give Barbèra’s Purgatory to our friend,’ said Al Husayn while heading towards the exit with his wheelchair.
Then he stopped suddenly, turned round and stared at the pale face of the professor. ‘I know you did not agree with our methods, but I know you understood the reason. Please know that we took one step at a time… many small steps that we thought would lead us to the goal. You know more than any other that I’m not wrong. Nevertheless, I apologize.’
The professor struggled to swallow and nodded. He would never forgive him; perhaps, however, he could understand him.
71
Dubai, January 5th. 5:40 p.m.
Ibrahim Al Husayn occupied his usual table at the Armani Lounge, seventy floors below the apartment of his father.
He had in front of him a flute of Krug. He smiled; he had not been so happy for a long time.
When Edward arrived – ripped jeans, yellow polo shirt and shoes of the same colour – the Prince greeted him, shaking his hand vigorously.
‘They’re a little hard on the consumption of alcohol here, so I booked the entire restaurant for us,’ he began in a low voice, pointing to the empty seats next to them. ‘I have important news, as I mentioned on the telephone; we have to celebrate. What will you drink?’
The Australian, who had recently returned from London, stared at his host’s glass and stood still for a second. ‘What you’re having.’
‘I’ll order it.’ He had not yet decided if he could trust him, but this was the moment of truth. The agreement they had signed was very simple: Edward would take care of killing his uncle Bashar, and on the death of his father – which now was fortunately imminent – he would be the heir to the throne. As simple as drinking a glass of water – at least that was what he had thought. Not a single shot would be fired, and a civil war from the unpredictable fate would be prevented.
Initially, he thought to tap into his rich account in Luxembourg to finance the company that would take care of the details. Then Edward had suggested an alternative.
‘If I’m not too indiscreet, I would like to ask you a few question about your father’s research…’ It had all begun with that simple sentence. It turned out that one of the Australian’s clients, a Japanese multinational, wanted the Brain Control device that Mohamed bin Saif was testing. So Edward, who was acting as intermediary for the company, had proposed a kind of barter: the device, in exchange for the throne.
He would take care of everything, from delivering the item to the Japanese, to collecting the money and delivering it to the people who would organize the coup against his uncle. Obviously, he would have kept the difference for himself, but that detail did not concern Ibrahim, who had considered the exchange very advantageous.
His father’s technological toys had never held any interest for him – he had even considered them a waste of time and money. Furthermore, the company that held the patent was formally registered to him, making the whole procedure even easier; a signature on a contract, and the game was done without even spending a penny.
So, after telling Edward what he knew about the experiments, Ibrahim had sent him to Florence, to the superintendent of the Uffizi Gallery.
The important thing was that his father must never find out about the deal, explained the Prince. It had been decided to simulate a burglary or a robbery; the Japanese would not market the toy for months, if not years. There was plenty of time for biology to take its course and his loathed parent to ascend serenely to Heaven.
‘I don’t want anything to do with this business,’ he explained emphatically, already savouring the next phase of his plan. ‘Take the device, it belongs to you now, and then devote your attention to more important issues: my own. This is just a detail, a piece of cake.’
The situation had proven more complicated than they had planned. Edward had instructed Qualcon Services to retrieve the device, but Tanaka had met with a series of unexpected events that – among other things – had caused Meredith’s death. The piece of cake had turned into urban warfare.
And now, after two weeks, Ibrahim and Edward were facing one another again.
‘The device is back in Dubai!’ whispered the Prince, staring into the Australian’s eyes, visibly worn out after the second trip to the UAE in two days.
‘This is great news.’ The Australian, meanwhile, was reconsidering what he knew about the Sheikh’s right of veto over his son’s decis
ions, and the last information given to Tanaka: ‘As soon as the father dies.’
‘They carried out one last experiment… without success, I seem to have understood.’
‘And how is your father?’
The Prince smiled. ‘A step closer to the grave.’
‘So… do you have access to the device now? Can you get it?’
‘If it puts an end to this madness, yes. As soon as possible I’ll find a way, without my father suspecting anything.’
Edward was not pleased with that answer, but he did everything to hide it. They were too slow; he was concerned about the time. He feared the Prince’s uncle, the powerful Bashar Al Husayn, would discover his nephew’s intentions… and worse, associate him with this crazy plan.
Of course there was no coup planned, but his uncle could not have known this, nor did the Prince.
‘As soon as possible is not soon enough!’ he thought, staring at the dark sea beyond the glass.
Then he wondered how Ibrahim Al Husayn would react on discovering the truth. He wondered whether it would be better to just eliminate him after the consignment.
72
Dubai, January 5th. 7:10 p.m.
Manuel Cassini was sitting on one of the many black leather armchairs at gate 11 in Dubai International Airport. He was in front of a metal column that supported an eleven-story atrium, and was waiting for his flight to Heathrow. From there, he would take another flight to Fiumicino.
He felt destroyed – both physically and spiritually – and above all, he still could not believe what had happened. Despite his most pessimistic predictions, despite the fact that they had kidnapped and subjected him to tests of every kind, in the end, they had actually let him go. Al Husayn had kept his word; after their last conversation, he had provided him with a trolley containing a change of clothes and a bodyguard: Julia.
Together, they had reached Concorse A, the terminal area built especially to house the Emirates airline’s fleet of Airbus A380.
