Pharaoh

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Then suddenly, one day, all the bloodshed and the constant danger started to get to him and he just couldn’t take it any more. He had made a pact with Abu Ahmid: that he would continue fighting only as long as his strength and courage lasted. So one night he boarded a plane and, equipped with false documents, went first to Paris, where he completed his studies in Coptic, and then to the United States. Sixteen years had passed since then and during that whole time he had heard nothing from Abu Ahmid. He had disappeared completely from his life.

  Omar himself had managed to forget about everything, cancelling his entire previous existence as though it had never taken place. He no longer kept up with the politics and actions of his former movement, nor did he even take much interest in what was going on in his native country. He blended into his new surroundings, immersing himself in his academic responsibilities and the quiet, peaceful lifestyle of a respectable upper middle-class American. He had a girlfriend, cultivated various hobbies, played golf and took a lively interest in following basketball and American football.

  The only memory that had remained alive all this time was that of Said, the son he had so tragically lost. His portrait had always been there on his desk and every day he imagined him growing, sprouting his first manly hair and taking on the deeper voice of an adult. At the same time, he continued to consider himself the father of the little boy in the photograph who had never grown up, and this somehow kept him feeling young. That was why he had never wanted to remarry or have any more children. Then, one day, all the skeletons in his closet came tumbling out with that photograph of the young man he immediately recognized as his son. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

  As he was on the way to the medicine cabinet to get a tranquillizer, his mobile phone rang. He went to answer it.

  ‘Salaam alekum, Abu Ghaj.’ It was that same metallic voice, slightly distorted by the poor reception. His caller was also using a mobile phone. ‘All the donkeys have been saddled. We are ready to go to market.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ answered Husseini. ‘I’ll transmit the message.’

  He waited a few more minutes, thinking about how he could get out of this situation, wipe away all of it, past and present, and return to his peaceful existence in America as a professor. No matter how hard he tried, though, he just couldn’t think of any way out. Not even death was an option now. Would he ever see the columns of Apamea, pale in the dawn light and red at sunset, like flaming torches? The sky outside was grey; the street was grey and so were the houses, just like his future.

  And then the doorbell rang, startling him. Who could it be at this hour? He was a nervous wreck and could hardly keep a handle on his emotions; and to think that once, for a long time, he had been known as Abu Ghaj, a killing machine, a ruthless robot.

  He went to the door and asked, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Sally,’ an almost childish voice answered timidly. ‘I was just going home and noticed your lights were on. Can I come in?’

  Husseini let out a sigh of relief and let her in. She was his girlfriend and he hadn’t seen her in several days.

  ‘Sit down,’ he told her, ill at ease.

  Sally slipped past him, then turned around. She was blonde and buxom with two big, rather perplexed, blue eyes: ‘I haven’t heard from you for quite a while,’ she said. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘No, Sally. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s my fault. I’m going through a really rough time.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well? Can I help you?’

  Husseini was very nervous. He knew he should have made the call immediately and without meaning to he looked at his watch. The girl felt humiliated and tears started welling up in her eyes.

  ‘It’s not like you think, Sally. I have to take medicine at regular intervals and that’s why I was checking my watch . . . Really, I’m not well.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Can I do something for you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t do anything. No one can do anything, Sally. It’s something I have to resolve by myself.’

  She drew close to him, stroking his cheek tenderly. ‘Omar . . .’ But Husseini stiffened.

  ‘Really, I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel . . .’

  She lowered her head to hide the tears.

  ‘I won’t be calling you for a while, Sally, but don’t blame yourself . . . I’ll get in touch as soon as I’m better.’

  ‘But I could—’

  ‘No, it’s best this way, believe me. I have to find some way

  out of this mess by myself . . . Why don’t you go on home now? It’s getting late.’

  The girl dried her eyes and left. Husseini stood in the doorway watching her as she walked to her car, then closed the door, picked up his mobile phone and rang. An answering machine responded and so he left a message: ‘All the donkeys are saddled. The drivers are ready to go to market.’

  He kept looking at the boy’s face in the photograph and at that moment it felt like the mortar that had destroyed his house all those years ago was exploding again in his heart, tearing it to pieces. He no longer knew who he was or what he was doing. All he knew was that he had to keep moving forward, no matter what. Sooner or later the real man would re-emerge and he would be ready to fight again. On one side or the other.

  His glance fell on the computer and he thought of William Blake. He turned it on and hooked up to the Internet so he could check his emails. He found a couple of messages from colleagues and then, the last one, was a message from Blake.

  In hieroglyphics.

  The most accurate translation would probably have been:

  The Pharaoh of the sands will show me his face before this day’s sun sets.

  And before sunset perhaps I shall know his name.

  You’ll have his name within twelve hours. In the meantime, look for the lost papyrus.

  It was a precise appointment and Husseini checked his watch. The message had been sent at 6 a.m. Israeli time, so the next message would arrive the next day before noon, local time in Chicago. He should be ready and waiting at the computer on line in case Blake needed an immediate response. In the meantime he composed a message confirming receipt, hoping that Blake would be able to interpret it as: I’ll be here in twelve hours. Am looking for the lost papyrus.

  He sent the message, turned off the computer and tried to get back to his work, but he couldn’t manage to concentrate. When he finished he realized that it had taken him twice as long as usual to correct half a dozen papers. It was nearly eleven and he still hadn’t eaten. He took two antacid tablets instead of dinner and swallowed a tranquillizer, hoping he’d be able to fall asleep.

  He slipped into a troubled sleep as soon as the medicine began to take effect and remained in that sluggish state for almost five hours. Then he went into a sort of half-slumber, tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position. But every time he seemed to be about to settle a message from the dream world thwarted him: someone seemed to be ringing the doorbell. He couldn’t tell if the sound was really part of a dream, as he hoped, or real.

  It finally stopped and he imagined that Sally was on the other side of the door, waiting for him to let her in. He thought it would be nice if she crawled into bed with him. It had been a long time since they had made love. But it wasn’t the doorbell, the doorbell didn’t have that off-and-on regular sort of pattern. It was something else . . .

  He sat bolt upright, squeezing his temples between the palms of his hands. It was his mobile phone. He answered it.

  At the other end he could hear the usual metallic voice: ‘Orders have arrived. The attack begins in thirty-four hours, by night. An unusually violent sandstorm is expected in the area . . . Look in your mailbox. You’ll find a package with a video cassette that contains the message. Deliver it in exactly nine hours. Have a nice day, Abu Ghaj.’

  He got up, threw his dressing gown over his shoulders and went out to the mailbox, trudging through the snow. He found the package
and went back into the house to fix himself some coffee.

  He sipped on the boiling brew, lighting himself a cigarette, all the while eyeing the package wrapped in plain brown paper that was sitting on the kitchen table. He wanted to open it and see what was inside, but he realized that if he did so his anxiety would soar, and he had a class to teach at nine. He had to force himself to appear absolutely normal.

  He left home at seven thirty and by eight was walking into the Oriental Institute. He picked up his mail and university bulletins from his pigeonhole and read them, killing time until he had to start teaching. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Selim, Blake’s assistant.

  ‘I have to speak with you, Professor Husseini,’ he said.

  ‘Come in and sit down. What do you have to tell me?’

  ‘My friend Ali from El Qurna has contacted me.’

  ‘The one with the papyrus?’ asked Husseini.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘He says that he still has the papyrus.’

  ‘Great. But can he be trusted?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘If we want to get it back, we need some money. Ali won’t wait forever. He’s still got Blake’s down payment and is willing to keep his word.’

  ‘Only the Institute can write a cheque for 200,000 dollars, but they’ll never do it. They were burned too badly by the story with Blake.’

  Selim shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then I don’t think there’s any hope. Ali has had another offer. It’s very generous but he won’t tell me who made it.’

  ‘I see,’ answered Husseini.

  ‘Well, then?’

  Husseini drummed nervously with his fingers on his desk, chewing his lower lip. An idea was beginning to suggest itself to him.

  ‘Go back to your office, Selim. I’ll join you after my class and I’ll come up with 200,000 dollars. Can you get a message to Ali?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then do it immediately. Tell him you’re coming with the money’

  Selim went out and Husseini remained for a few moments to ponder the situation, still drumming his fingers against the top of the desk. Finally he got out his mobile phone and made a call. At the sound of the signal, he said, ‘Emergency. What sort of availability is there on the funds deposited at the International City Bank. I need some cover money.’

  He terminated the connection and sat waiting, still drumming with increasing obsessiveness on the desk top. His class was scheduled to begin in five minutes.

  At last, his mobile phone rang and a synthesized voice said, ‘Availability confirmed up to 500,000 dollars. Withdrawal code: Jerash.*200x. Repeat Jerash.*200x.’

  Husseini jotted down the information and put away the phone. It was time for class. He took out the file containing his notes, texts and slides and headed towards the classroom, where his students were waiting.

  The seats were almost all taken and so he began.

  ‘Today, we’re going to talk about the Great Library of Alexandria, which is commonly held to have been destroyed by the Arabs. I shall demonstrate the falsity of this position, using two fundamental facts: first, the library had been gone for centuries by the time the Arabs conquered Egypt; secondly, the Arabs were always champions of culture and never its enemies

  WILLIAM BLAKE watched the sequence of characters that appeared on his screen and interpreted them as:

  When the day has reached the border of night I shall be present.

  I am looking for the papyrus.

  He imagined this meant that in about eleven hours Husseini would be in front of his computer hooked up to the Internet. ‘Thank you, Mr Maddox,’ he said. ‘Now we can go.’

  They left as the horizon was just starting to brighten up in the east. Blake let Maddox go ahead, then stopped in front of Sarah’s door and knocked.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she answered, appearing shortly in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, desert boots and a military-style shirt. She had pulled her hair up, exposing her neck, and looked absolutely beautiful.

  ‘You look really beat,’ she said when she saw Blake. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I worked all night.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sarah. ‘Well, not quite all night.’

  Wait for me at the parking lot. Just give me enough time to take a shower and make myself some toast and I’ll join you. In the meantime, you can get the equipment ready. Maddox is coming too. You knew that, right?’

  The girl nodded in assent. She closed the door behind her and started walking towards the parking lot.

  Maddox went up to her. ‘Well, this is the big day. Has Blake mentioned anything to you about what he’s got in mind?’

  ‘No. But I don’t think even he’s sure what we’re in for. He’ll tell us what he thinks once the sarcophagus has been opened.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but I have the impression that he’s hiding something. Keep an eye on him. I want to know everything that’s going on in his mind. You won’t regret it. In the end there’ll be enough for everyone.’

  What about him?’

  ‘For him too,’ said Maddox.

  Sullivan and Gordon showed up and then Blake joined them, a bundle of papers under his arm, saying, ‘Well, shall we be off?’

  9

  WILLIAM BLAKE got into the Jeep with Sarah and they headed towards the Ras Udash camp. Behind them Sullivan was driving Maddox’sJeep.

  ‘You really look awful,’ said Sarah, eyeing her companion furtively.

  ‘I’ve never been much to look at, but not shutting my eyes all night certainly doesn’t help.’

  ‘Were you able to translate the inscription?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Something that can derail the destiny of the world, traumatize two-thirds of humanity and leave anyone else capable of understanding totally stunned,’ Blake said in a monotone, as if he had recited a telephone number

  Sarah turned to him. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘It’s the honest truth.’

  And are you sure of your interpretation?’

  ‘Ninety per cent.’

  ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘I have to open that coffin and look him in the face.’

  ‘The Pharaoh, you mean?’

  ‘Whoever’s buried inside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The tomb could be empty. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’d have to reconsider my thinking completely. Or else the person buried there could be someone other than who I think it is.’

  ‘And who do you think it is?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, not yet.’

  ‘Will you tell me later?’

  Blake was silent.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

  Blake said nothing.

  ‘And yet I’m the only person in this camp who can save your life. And you’ve even been to bed with me.’

  ‘That’s right. And I’d like to again.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Revealing the identity would have a devastating impact.’

  ‘And that’s why you don’t trust me, isn’t it? Not even if I told you what Maddox is up to and what they’re going to do with your tomb?’

  Blake turned to her sharply.

  ‘You’re interested, then,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I’ll tell you. When I’ve opened that lid.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I burned the toast. Got anything in your bag?’

  ‘There’re some cookies and coffee in the thermos. Help yourself.’

  Blake waited until they were on more level ground, then with some difficulty poured himself coffee from the thermos. He took handful of cookies from the bag and started to eat them distractedly.

  ‘Well,’ Sarah resumed, ‘last night I followed Maddox and saw whom he was meetin
g.’

  ‘Did you manage to hear what they were saying?’ asked Blake between mouthfuls.

  ‘I took a very useful little toy with me: a high-fidelity directional microphone.’

  ‘You’re well equipped.’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Maddox met with Jonathan Friedkin. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s the head of the Orthodox Israeli extremists. A group of extremely dangerous fanatics.’

  ‘Fanaticism is always dangerous, no matter where it comes from.’

  ‘They have dreams of overthrowing the government of the republic and setting up a monarchy inspired by the Bible.’

  ‘I’ve heard about this—’

  ‘But there’s more. Their plan is to destroy the Al Aqsa Mosque on Mount Moriah and build a fourth temple in its place.’

  ‘An interesting plan, certainly. And how do they think they’re going to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the current situation is so dramatic in the Middle East that it can only fuel the extremist positions on both sides.’

  ‘Yeah . . . they’re dreaming, all right . . . But the power of dreams is greater than any other. Their power is overwhelming. Do you want to know something? If I were Jewish, I would dream of rebuilding the temple, too.’

  He lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke into the desert air.

  ‘And would you be willing to slaughter people for the cause?’

  ‘No, not me.’

  ‘Will, Maddox is in with these guys. They’re going to sell the objects in the Ras Udash tomb and split up the money. It’s a colossal amount. They showed buyers the photos and sheets of your documentation. There’s a total offer of 100 million dollars, twenty of which will go to Maddox. More than enough to solve his problems. The rest will be used to finance Friedkin’s group.’

  ‘Bastards. And when do they plan on doing all this?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘You’re joking? That’s not possible.’

  ‘They’re going to do it. Two trucks from Mitzpe are going to come to load everything up, then they’ll head towards the coast, where a boat will be ready to take the things on board. The payment will be made when the cargo gets picked up. I see camel, I pay for camel, as they say around here, you know?’