Pharaoh

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  The answers to your questions:

  a) Following is a reproduction of the three lines of the Breasted papyrus in our possession.

  A text in hieroglyphics followed.

  b) The text is almost certainly a faithful transcription of the original, with all of its palaeographic characteristics. Breasted was famous for being scrupulous to the point of being a stickler. A transcription of his can practically be considered a photocopy of the original, if you’ll permit the anachronism.

  Let me know how the situation develops. I’m anxious to hear more.

  Husseini

  Blake uploaded his hieroglyphic translation program and with the help of the grammar he’d brought, tried to work out a message for Husseini which would ask him to identify the place and region that the coordinates referred to. It wasn’t easy to find the terms in ancient Egyptian to express modern geographical concepts, and when he reread the message he wasn’t at all sure that Husseini would understand what he needed, but he had no choice. He intended the message to say:

  The place in which I read the words is the place where a great man of the Land of Egypt is buried. I entered and saw that the place is intact. I don’t know where I am, but the numbers of this place are: thirty-eight and eighteen and fifty towards the night; thirty-four and forty-three towards the rising sun.

  Hoping that Husseini would understand: northern latitude 38°18'50", eastern longitude 34°43'.

  When he finished he called Pollock on the phone. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Pollock. It’s Blake and I have to send an email’

  ‘Can you be more specific, Professor Blake?’

  ‘It’s a text in hieroglyphics that I have to consult a colleague about, the same person I sent the last message to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor, but seeing that Mr Maddox is not here, I can’t accept your request.’

  Blake reacted aggressively. ‘Listen, Pollock, this colleague is the only person I can trust on this, and he just happens to be leaving town tomorrow. He’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. That means that I won’t be able to fully decipher the texts that I’ve transcribed, and that information is absolutely essential for my work. If you want to take the responsibility for hindering my work, go right ahead, but I don’t think Mr Maddox will be happy about it.’

  Pollock didn’t answer immediately. Blake could hear his breathing on the other end of the phone, and the noise of the generator in the background, much louder than it was outside.

  ‘All right,’ said Pollock, ‘if you guarantee that’s all there is in the message.’

  ‘That’s it, Mr Pollock,’ insisted Blake. ‘If your computer is on, I’ll send you the text directly by modem so you can email it right away. I might even get an answer back quickly, if you could leave the generator on for a little while longer.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Pollock, ‘I did plan to take advantage of Mr Maddox’s absence to take care of a few things and to let the refrigerators run a little longer. Send me through the message.’

  Blake hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. He immediately transmitted the text he’d prepared to Pollock’s computer, hoping that Husseini was still in the house. He figured that in Chicago it would be between twelve and one in the afternoon.

  After he’d sent the message he pulled up Husseini’s response again and printed the three lines of the Breasted papyrus, comparing every line and every palaeographic detail with the figures from the tomb he was excavating. They matched incredibly. It really looked as if the same scribe had written the two texts. But how could that be?

  He suddenly realized that he’d been working on his analysis for nearly two hours and the generator was still on. It was a quarter to ten. Evidently Maddox hadn’t returned yet, and probably neither had Sarah.

  He opened the door and walked outside. The air was cold and crisp and the waning moon wandered between a thin layer of clouds and the wavy profile of the mountains.

  He thought of Sarah out all alone in the desert. Sarah who had lied to him and used her beauty to manipulate him. No one in that camp was who they seemed to be and he realized that he couldn’t allow himself to feel any emotion other than diffidence. His only remaining contact was Husseini, the colleague who had taken him in off the street that lonely Christmas Eve. And even that contact felt very precarious; he could be cut off at any time.

  He lit up a cigarette and tried to relax, but with each passing moment the situation seemed even more difficult and dangerous. And he realized that he had absolutely no influence on the outcome. Those people roaming around at night through the desert, those distant noises, those strange flashes of light on the horizon: what did any of this have to do with their presumed mining activity?

  He imagined that they might even be planning to take him out, once they’d got what they’d wanted from him. Or blackmail him, forcing him to keep his mouth shut about everything.

  The ringing telephone interrupted his thoughts and he jumped to his feet. He went back in and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Pollock. There’s an answer to your email. If your computer’s on, I’ll send it through.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Pollock. I’m ready on this end.’

  Husseini answered him in the same way, in hieroglyphics. He seemed to have understood perfectly what Blake needed to know. He had to make a rough interpretation of the answer; some parts of it weren’t entirely clear. But there was one phrase that left no doubt: Your place is in the desert called Negev, near the low land called Mitzpe Ramon, in the land of Israel.

  He added: How could that possibly be?

  GAD AVNER left archaeologist Ygael Allon’s company at one in the morning. A thrilling tour, Professor,’ he said, as soon as they’d come up from the tunnel under the Antonian Fortress archway. ‘How long do you think it will take to reach the end of the tunnel?’

  Allon shrugged. ‘Hard to say. It’s not a construction like a house or a sanctuary or a thermal bath where we know the approximate dimensions. A tunnel can be ten metres long or even three kilometres. The extraordinary thing is that it seems to lead to the Temple.’

  ‘I can see why you had me called,’ said Avner. ‘I’ll give immediate orders to have the area with access to the dig cordoned off, and I’ll ensure that you have everything you need to finish your investigation as soon as possible. Because of where we are, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that this whole operation must remain completely secret. Tension is so high that news like this could have unforeseen consequences.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Allon. ‘I think you’re right. Goodnight, Mr Cohen.’

  ‘Goodnight, Professor.’

  He walked off, followed by his companion. ‘Ferrario,’ he said as soon as they’d taken a few steps, ‘give immediate instructions to have the area blocked off and infiltrate a couple of our agents among the excavation crew. I want to be continually informed of what’s going on down there.’

  ‘But sir,’ protested the officer, ‘blocking off the area will draw attention to it and—’

  ‘I know, but I’d say we have no choice in the matter. Do you have a better idea?’

  Ferrario shook his head.

  ‘See? Do as I ask. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon in the King David lobby at five, for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ answered Ferrario. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the Antonian Fortress.

  Avner reached his private residence in the Old City and took the elevator up to the eighth floor. He never had a bodyguard with him at home, having given his agents firm orders that no one should cross into his private territory. He had always calculated the risks and he preferred it this way. He turned the key in the lock and went in.

  He walked through the apartment without even switching on the light and walked onto the terrace to look down at the city, as he did every night before going to sleep. He let his gaze roam over the domes and towers, over the city walls, over the Mosque of Omar rising on the mount that was once the
site of the Sanctuary of Yahweh. He needed to know that he had the situation under control before calling it a night.

  He lit a cigarette and let the stiff, cold wind from the snowy peaks of Mount Carmel numb his face and forehead.

  This was the time when he thought of his dead. Of his son Aser, killed at twenty in an ambush in the south of Lebanon, and his wife, Ruth, who had died shortly after, incapable of surviving without him. He thought of his own solitude at the top of that apartment building, at the top of his organization and at the turning point of his existence.

  He scanned the eastern horizon in the direction of the desert of Judah and the high Moab plain and he felt his enemy moving like a ghost somewhere beyond those barren hills, through that sterile land.

  The elusive Abu Ahmid.

  The man who had been directly responsible for the death of his son and the massacre of the boy’s comrades. Avner had sworn that day to hunt him down relentlessly. But since then he’d only managed to catch a glimpse of him once and only after the bastard had already slipped out of his hands, during a parachute raid on a refugee camp in southern Lebanon. But he was sure he would recognize him if he ever saw him again.

  The cigarette burned quickly, helped by the wind. Gad Avner walked back into the house and switched on his table lamp: the light on his private telephone line was flashing in the dark.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the night porter,’ replied a voice on the other end.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m working, but it’s not easy in these surroundings. There have been unforeseen newcomers . . . intruders, you could say.’

  Avner fell silent, as if taken by surprise. ‘The risks of the profession. Who are they?’

  ‘Americans. A commando unit. And there’s talk of an operation in progress.’

  ‘Can’t you find out anything else?’

  ‘A date: 13 January. And the situation seems to be moving along quickly.’

  ‘Anything else going on at the front?’

  ‘Lots. But I have to cut off, sir. There’s someone coming.’

  ‘Be careful. If something happens to you there’s no one who can replace you. Thank you, night porter.’

  The little green light went out and Gad Avner turned on the computer. He connected to the databank at headquarters to access a schedule of events for the entire Middle East: local functions and festivities, religious celebrations, political and diplomatic meetings.

  One in particular attracted his attention: a military parade commemorating Gulf War casualties. The parade was scheduled to take place in front of the newly restored Palace of Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon. At 5.30 p.m. on 13 January, in the presence of President al Bashar.

  He turned off the computer, switched off the lights and went into his bedroom. The alarm clock by his bedside told him it was 2 a.m., on 4 January. Nine days, fifteen hours and thirty minutes to go.

  6

  TWO DAYS LATER, Gad Avner got home about midnight and turned on the TV as he often did to wind down a little before going to bed. As he was switching channels, he paused at the CNN news, and realized just how nervous the media was getting about the turn that events had been taking in Israel and the Middle East.

  Vague hopes were expressed for a political solution, not forthcoming, to what had become an irremediable situation. But he, in the meantime, he, Gad Avner, commander of Mossad, had to take action. No matter what the politicians were up to. Time was running out and he still didn’t know what was behind Operation Nebuchadnezzar.

  He turned to look out of the rain-streaked window and noticed that the little green light on his private line was flashing. He switched off the TV and picked up the receiver.

  Avner.’

  ‘It’s the night porter, sir.’

  ‘Hello, night porter. Any news?’

  ‘Quite a bit, actually. I’ve discovered who the Americans are. A commando unit sent as support for an assassination. At Babylon. President al Bashar, during a military parade.’

  ‘Who will kill him?’

  A group of Republican Guards, led by a certain Abdel Bechir. They say that his real name is Casey. His father was American, his mother Arab, and he’s totally bilingual. Something like the assassination of President Sadat in Cairo. But the powers behind the plan are different this time.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it seems that General Taksoun will be succeeding him.’

  ‘Too predictable to be true,’ commented Gad Avner, perplexed. ‘Taksoun most probably won’t make it to 13 January alive. If I were al Bashar, I’d already have had him shot. Too capable, too popular, too open to new ideas, too well connected in diplomatic circles all over the Middle East. Here too. If al Bashar ever survived an assassination attempt, Taksoun would immediately be accused and executed, whether or not he was involved. Al Bashar is just waiting for an excuse. What else?’

  ‘The American SOF unit belongs to the Delta Force and is under cover at Mitzpe Ramon. They’re preparing for an air raid. In support of Taksoun, if it becomes necessary.’

  Avner was struck dumb. It seemed impossible that the Israeli air force could have handed a training base over to an American commando unit at the Mitzpe range without him knowing about it. What seemed even more impossible was that the Americans were keeping him out of something so big. There’d be hell to pay for this.

  He said, Anything else?’

  ‘Yes . . . sir,’ replied the other with some hesitation. ‘I haven’t mentioned it because it’s still completely unclear to me – inexplicable, actually, although at first I thought that it could be directly related to my primary mission. But I really don’t know what to think’

  ‘What is it?’

  A dig, sir. An archaeological dig near an area called . . . Ras Udash.’

  THE CAR STOPPED in front of the American consulate general and the guard peered inside.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘The consulate is closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it,’ replied the man sitting on the back seat. ‘Announce me to the ambassador.’

  ‘Sir, you must be joking. It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘No, I’m perfectly serious,’ answered the man. ‘Tell him that Gad Avner wants to see him, immediately. He’ll receive me.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘Wait here a minute.’ He dialled a number at the front switchboard and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end. He returned to the car with an astonished look on his face: ‘The ambassador will see you now, Mr Avner.’

  The guard accompanied him to the building and led him into a little sitting room. The ambassador arrived, and it was clear that the unexpected visit had disturbed his slumber. He was wearing a robe over his pyjamas.

  ‘What’s happened, Mr Avner?’ he asked with an alarmed expression.

  ‘Mr Holloway,’ began Avner without any small talk, ‘President al Bashar will be assassinated at 5.30 p.m. on 13 January. Probably with your support if not on your direct orders. You’ve installed a Delta Force unit under cover at Mitzpe Ramon without asking for my consent or my opinion. This is completely unjustifiable and extremely dangerous in the light of the situation in which we find ourselves. I demand an immediate explanation.’

  Ambassador Holloway acknowledged his accusations without protesting. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Avner, but the instructions I’ve received will not allow me to give you an answer. I can say that we are in no way directly responsible for any assassination plot, but that we are in favour of General Mohammed Taksoun taking over the reins in Baghdad.’

  ‘Fine, Mr Holloway. The damage is done, but I want you to realize that nothing can happen in this country – understand, absolutely nothing – without me finding out about it. Refer that to your president and to the CIA and tell them that no decision at any level can pass without considering the opinion of Gad Avner.’

  Holloway lowered his head and did not da
re to object when his guest nervously lit up a cigarette, despite the notice on the wall which clearly said: thank you for not smoking

  ‘What else is there, Mr Avner?’ he said, trying to mask his irritation at Avner’s blatant violation of the rules.

  ‘One question, Mr Holloway. Do you know what Operation Nebuchadnezzar is?’

  Holloway seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I have no idea, Mr Avner. Not the slightest idea.’

  Avner leaned close, enveloping him in a cloud of blue smoke, and stared straight into his eyes. ‘Mr Holloway,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that if you are lying to me I will do everything in my power to make your life here in Jerusalem very, very uncomfortable. You know that I will not hesitate to do so.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth, Mr Avner. I give you my word.’

  ‘I believe you. Now, tell your superiors in Washington that I want to be consulted before any decisions are made about moving that commando unit you’ve got in the Mitzpe Ramon crater. And that they should start considering the possibility of pulling them out in very short order.’

  ‘I will do so, Mr Avner,’ said the ambassador.

  Avner looked around for an ashtray and, not finding one, put out his cigarette butt on a Sevres plate resting on a console, further scandalizing the American ambassador.

  Just then they heard a soft knock on the sitting-room door. The two men exchanged surprised looks: who could it be at that hour?

  ‘Come in,’ said the ambassador.

  A consulate official came in, nodded to both of them, and turned towards his superior. A report has just come in for you, sir. Could you come with me a moment?’

  Holloway excused himself and walked out behind the official. Although Avner had been about to leave, he took his seat again. The ambassador returned almost immediately, visibly shaken.

  ‘Mr Avner,’ he said, ‘we’ve been informed that General Taksoun has just arrested Abdel Bechir and had him shot, along with five Republican Guards, accusing them of conspiracy and high treason. The execution took place just after midnight at a barracks in Baghdad.’