Pharaoh

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ said Yehudai, ‘especially now that Egypt has joined the conflict. And things could get worse. We absolutely must deliver a devastating blow to our enemies now, before they are joined by new allies. If things start looking even vaguely hopeful for them, they’ll be lining up to jump on the victory wagon.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ said Avner. ‘So far, Iran is providing only indirect support, quite satisfied with its conquests in Saudi Arabia, where it wants control over the holy places of Islam, but more radical, extremist forces could gain the upper hand at any time and press for direct intervention, especially if the threat that has kept the Americans and Europeans out of the conflict continues to function. Let’s not forget that the Iranians have sworn to take Jerusalem. Plus I’ve been getting reports that even the Islamic republics of the former Soviet Union are showing signs of unrest.’

  He was silent for a while, as if lost in some disturbing thoughts and then went on to say, ‘What chance is there that we’ll have to resort to nuclear arms?’

  ‘It’s our last card,’ said Yehudai, letting his eyes fall on Beersheba, ‘but it could become inevitable. Here’s how it stands. We are trying to counterattack wherever the enemy has penetrated deep into our territory in the direction of the capital. By tomorrow, we should know if this counteroffensive has worked or not.

  ‘If we don’t manage to push them back, it means that the situation could worsen drastically in the following twenty-four hours, turning everything in their favour, pushing us to the point of no return. At which time we would have no other choice.’

  Avner lowered his head. ‘Unfortunately, there’s no news from Washington. The situation in the US is still the same. They can’t locate the commando squadrons, they don’t know where the bombs are, and there’s no indication that anything’s going to change much for the better in the next forty-eight hours.

  ‘We have to rely on our own resources. The only person on our side seems to be the Pope, who has called for a cease-fire, but I don’t see much hope in that particular solution.’

  Just then, the pneumatically sealed door of the bunker opened and Ferrario came in, visibly excited. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘the satellite listening equipment has just located an enemy communications centre within our national borders. According to the American experts, it could be the main nerve centre coordinating the entire Operation Nebuchadnezzar. If we hook our main computer up with the satellite, the location will be shown on our virtual war theatre. Watch!’

  They went up to the officer at the control panel and gave him the sequence of commands he needed to tune into the geostationary military satellite and, in less than a minute, there it was: a little blue light began blinking on the three-dimensional map.

  ‘Why, it’s between here and Bethlehem!’ Yehudai exclaimed, dumbfounded. ‘Practically right under our noses.’

  ‘Between here and Bethlehem,’ mumbled Avner, repeating the geographical coordinates, as if scrolling down a series of mental files. ‘There’s only one son of a bitch with enough balls and know-how to locate a hostile communications centre right in the middle of Israel . . . Abu Ahmid!’

  ‘That’s just not possible,’ Yehudai snorted.

  ‘I beg to disagree,’ replied Avner. Then, turning to Ferrario, ‘Where’s Allon?’

  Ferrario looked at his watch. ‘He should still be in the tunnel.’

  ‘Arrange for a meeting as soon as you can.’

  ‘Who’s Allon?’ Yehudai asked.

  ‘An archaeologist,’ replied Avner, turning round and heading out behind his assistant. ‘Someone who knows everything there is to know about Nebuchadnezzar.’

  14

  THE DOOR OPENED with a slight squeak and a dark shape stood in the doorway: a tall man carrying a briefcase.

  ‘Selim? It’s me,’ he said. ‘I just got here.’

  ‘Why ask for the assistant when the professor’s in his office, Olsen?’ asked a voice from the darkness.

  ‘Who is that? Who’s in there?’ asked the man, retreating.

  ‘Don’t you remember your old friend?’ continued the voice from the dark room.

  ‘My God. William Blake. Is that you, Will? Oh, Christ, you really surprised me, Will. What are you doing here, in the dark? Come on. Stop kidding around. Where are you?’

  A light bulb came on unexpectedly and Bob Olsen found Blake right in front of him. He was sitting on a torn armchair with his hands on the armrests and a gun lying on the table next to him.

  ‘Here I am, Bob. What are you doing in Egypt at such a bad time? Why here, in such an out-of-the-way place?’

  Will, I was in Luxor, and the reason that I came here is because Selim promised to help me contact the US ambassador. You know, Will, I’ve managed to do a lot, just like I said I would. I’ve been looking for witnesses, for someone to testify on your behalf. I was even trying to clear things up with the Egyptian authorities and I think I was getting through to them. I promised you that I would have them reopen your case at the department, and I’ll convince them, believe me. If we can get out of this inferno, I swear you’ll get your job back. Everyone will just have to recognize that they were wrong.’

  ‘Bob, I can’t get over how much you’ve done to help this unfortunate friend of yours.’

  Olsen was trying not to look at the gun, as if to demonstrate that it was not there for him, but it glittered insistently in that dim light. He looked around with a bewildered expression and the surreal situation began to erode his show of calm.

  ‘What do you mean by that? Why the sarcasm, Will? Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I swear—’

  ‘What I mean is that you betrayed my trust and my friendship in every way you could. You’re even screwing my wife, Bob. How long has it been going on?’

  ‘Oh, come on! You don’t believe that slanderous gossip. They’re only trying to—’

  ‘How long, Bob?’ repeated Blake.

  Olsen backed away. ‘Will, I . . .’ A nervous tic caused his right eyelid to twitch convulsively as sweat trickled down his forehead.

  ‘That’s why you worked so hard to get me the financing. So you could have the run of the place while I was in Egypt.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. I was sincere, I—’

  ‘Oh, that I can believe. You knew I was on the right track. In fact, you had a couple of your friends from the Institute in Cairo keeping an eye on me, and when you found out I’d made an appointment to see the papyrus, you sent the Egyptian police after me. So I would be out of the game and you could get your hands on it yourself. But something went wrong, didn’t it? They didn’t have the papyrus with them. In the meantime, it was all over for me, wasn’t it? Kicked out of the house, out of the Institute, out of your fucking way, right? The papyrus would pop up sooner or later, you thought, just a little patience and you could take the credit for the discovery. Just think. An Egyptian version of the biblical Exodus, the only non-Hebrew source for the most important event in the history of the East and the West. Not bad.

  ‘You would have become the director of the Oriental Institute, the successor of James Henry Breasted. Glory, popularity, lucrative editorial contracts . . . and Judy’s bed too.’

  Olsen was stuttering. His mouth was dry and he kept licking his lips. ‘Will, believe me, it’s all a bunch of lies. Whoever told you those things is trying to set us against each other for some obscure reason of his own. Think about it, I’ve always been your friend—’

  ‘Really? Fine, there’s nothing I’d like better than to believe you. Right now, though, let me finish what I have to say. We have time; nobody knows we’re here. Selim’s on my side, obviously. You see, someone had his friend killed. Ali Mahmoudi, the man who had the Breasted papyrus. They murdered him before he could deliver it to Selim and then sent the police in. Doesn’t that story sound familiar at all, Bob? But the problem is that Ali didn’t die right away.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? A man with three bullets in him. But se
e, Bob, these Egyptian peasants are from sturdy stock. They’re descended from the race of the Pharaohs.

  ‘So poor Ali, half dead from loss of blood, drags himself to the place where he’d agreed to meet Selim and, before he dies, tells his friend who shot him. A bald man with a red moustache. A man carrying a briefcase with silver buckles. Isn’t that the one, Bob? Isn’t that the briefcase you have in your hand?’

  ‘This is totally, absolutely crazy,’ mumbled Olsen. You cannot seriously believe that—’

  ‘Fine, I won’t believe it. If you show me what’s inside that briefcase.’

  Olsen grasped it to his chest. ‘Will, I can’t do that. This briefcase contains reserved, confidential documents that I’m not authorized—’

  Blake put his right hand on the gun. ‘Open that briefcase, Bob.’

  At that moment, an explosion rocked all the windows and chandeliers, and the room was illuminated for an instant by the stroboscopic reflection of the detonation, immediately followed by the roar of jet engines and the cadenced thunder of antiaircraft guns. Israel still had the force to strike at the heart of Egypt. Neither of the two men blinked an eye.

  Olsen lowered his head. ‘Whatever you say, Will, but you are making a big mistake. There are documents in here that—’

  The two silver buckles opened one by one with a metallic click and Olsen’s hand plunged into the briefcase to pull out a gun, but before he could raise it to aim, Blake shot him. Once, through the heart.

  There was the clatter of footsteps outside on the stairs, and Sarah and Selim appeared at the door.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ gasped Sarah, practically stumbling over Olsen’s body stretched across the threshold. ‘Don’t tell me this is—’

  Selim shot Blake a knowing look. ‘Olsen. Sorry I didn’t get here in time. I tried to warn you what he was up to in my letter.’

  ‘He had a gun, as you can see. And he tried to use it. I didn’t have a choice.’

  Sarah looked at him, aghast.

  ‘We have to get him out of here,’ said Selim. ‘The noise of the bombing and the anti-aircraft fire may have covered the sound of the shot, but we can’t keep him in here.’

  Blake seemed not to hear him. He knelt on the ground as the flares from more explosions outside cast wild shadows on the walls of the room, and opened Olsen’s briefcase, feeling around inside with his hand. He pulled out a metallic box, set it down on the table next to the armchair, under the lamp, and opened it. Another round of explosions, even closer this time, shook the entire building and the blinding flashes bounced off the walls and the ceiling. Blake’s pupils reflected something else: ancient symbols, the enigmatic ideograms he had sought for so long.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he breathed. ‘My God. The Breasted papyrus!’

  And he would have sat there in total absorption, unaware of anything around him, deciphering those words. Unravelling that centuries-old message which had finally emerged from the darkness. At that moment he seemed even to have forgotten that he had just killed a man.

  Sarah shook him. ‘Will, we have to get rid of the corpse.’

  ‘At the end of the hallway there’s still some scaffolding that was erected by the construction company with a service elevator they were using to send up materials. We can use that,’ Selim said. ‘But I’ll need your help.’

  He took his car keys from his pocket and handed them to Sarah. ‘Miss Forrestall, kindly go down and take Khaled’s Peugeot, which is parked out in front, drive it around the block and stop in front of the scaffolding. We’ll be down in a minute with Professor Olsen’s corpse.’

  Sarah nodded, rather bewildered by the young man’s macabre formality, and went down the stairs in the dark, while Selim and Blake, after checking the hall, dragged Olsen’s body, which they had wrapped in a blanket, over to the window at the end of the hall. Selim opened the window, climbed out and into the service elevator. He began to pull Olsen’s body in, helped by Blake, who was busy pushing him out.

  When they had loaded the corpse, Selim cut the connections on the elevator’s control board so he could hot-wire them and power up the motor. The platform began moving with a slight buzz; Selim gave Blake a thumbs-up gesture and disappeared beneath the sill with the body.

  Blake tiptoed down the stairs, exited onto the road and walked around the block to the base of the scaffolding. All the lights in the neighbourhood, and as far as the eye could see, were out. A curfew was obviously in effect.

  Sarah had already opened the hatchback on the Peugeot and Selim was dragging the body out of the service elevator. It took all three of them to lift the heavy burden and get it into the boot.

  ‘I’ll stop by Khaled’s and get him to help me dump him into the Nile. You two wait for me at home and don’t move for any reason.’

  ‘Selim, thank you,’ said Blake. ‘I’ll never forget this.’

  ‘Everything’s OK, Professor Blake. Don’t answer the phone before the tenth ring,’ added Selim, and drove off.

  Sarah and Blake went back up to the apartment and locked the door behind them.

  ‘We’d better not turn on the light,’ said Sarah. ‘The curtains don’t close well and the light will filter through. We don’t want it to look like anyone’s in here. You can work on your papyrus when we get back.’

  Blake embraced her in the dark and they stayed in each other’s arms, listening to the sounds of war in the sky above the city. Eventually Sarah broke the silence.

  ‘How can we get out of this country?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to rely on Selim. He’s been great so far.’

  Husseini suddenly came to mind. He had high-ranking friends in Egypt. Maybe he could help them.

  ‘Sarah, your mobile phone. There’s a person I trust who may be able to save us. Let me give him a try.’

  Sarah passed the phone and lit it up with a tiny torch so he could dial the number. Husseini’s phone began ringing but no one answered and the answering machine wasn’t even on. Strange. He tried again and again, but without success.

  Blake shut the phone, felt around in the dark for a chair and sat down, trying to organize his thoughts. He still had the phone in his hand and he had an idea.

  ‘Sarah, this thing is also a computer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘And it’s much more powerful than you’d think.’

  ‘Perfect, then I can send him an email. He checks them every day.’

  He opened the device and turned on the tiny computer, connecting it to the Internet. Sarah gave him her password and he typed in Husseini’s address.

  Blake watched the little fluorescent screen incredulously, imagining the signal bouncing off an artificial satellite and going via a switchboard on the other side of the Atlantic, through the phone and into the computer of Professor Omar al Husseini at 5,500 Ellis Avenue, Chicago, Illinois.

  ‘This thing is incredible,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Now you can write in your message,’ instructed Sarah. ‘But first type in ZQ to get the screen.’

  Blake typed in the two letters, but before he could begin to write, another window appeared in place of the message window.

  ‘Christ, what did I do?’ he said.

  Sarah came closer. ‘I don’t know. Let me see. You probably pressed the wrong keys and sent off a remote access code without meaning to. See? You’re in your friend’s file manager.’

  ‘Well,’ said Blake, ‘get me out. I don’t want to nose around in his files.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ said Sarah. ‘Just press “Alt” and “Tab” and that will get you out, then repeat the procedure for the email window.’

  ‘Shine the light on it, will you?’ said Blake. ‘I don’t want to get it wrong again.’

  As Sarah tried to illuminate the tiny keypad, Blake’s attention was drawn to one of the files in Egyptian hieroglyphics.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘It’s our secret communication system. I sent and received messages under Maddox’
s nose at Ras Udash by telling him that I had to consult a colleague in Chicago about certain hieroglyphic symbols.’

  ‘Interesting. Is that how you found out where you were?’

  ‘Right. Want to see?’

  ‘Why not? Khaled and Selim won’t be back for a couple of hours at least.’

  ‘OK. First we have to load the program for reading hieroglyphics. I can do that directly from Husseini’s computer.’

  He moved the cursor down the list and stopped on the program. He loaded it onto the tiny device and went back to the file name he had noticed at first, made up of five ideograms.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Nothing, in this sequence. Maybe there’s a password. Forget it. Let’s go back to the email.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Sarah. ‘Let me play with it a minute.’

  She passed the torch to Blake and took the keypad. She highlighted each one of the symbols with the mouse in turn, then pressed a series of keys, and the ideograms began to rotate in sequence, stopping at each possible new composition for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Can you see any meaning in any of this?’ she asked Blake.

  He shook his head.

  ‘No problem. The computer will continue to look for alternative combinations. It’s very fast.’

  ‘Listen, Sarah, I don’t think we have the right to—’ He didn’t finish his phrase. ‘Stop right there,’ he said suddenly.

  Sarah hit a key and froze the sequence of ideograms as they appeared a second before.

  ‘This means something?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blake grimly.

  ‘Well, what does it mean?’

  ‘Armageddon.’

  ‘Armageddon?’ repeated Sarah.

  ‘The battle of the last day: four kings of the Orient against Israel. The battle that will end with an apocalyptic catastrophe. It’s what’s happening now. Think about it. Israel is being threatened by her ancient enemies: by the peoples of the Nile, the Tigris and the Euphrates.’