The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s get straight to the point: I don’t know where you find your sources, but only this morning – and this is strictly confidential, you understand – the American Ambassador has requested our assistance. The Americans want to investigate certain financial dealings involving Newmans Colonial Bank. Apparently, it has to do with court proceedings instigated by Holocaust survivors against a Swiss bank in the US. Yet, here you are, raising the very same issues in your report. Impressive.’ The Attorney-General paused and pointed to Jana’s report on the desk in front of him.

  I owe you one, Jack, thought Jana, suppressing a smile.

  ‘You should know that this latest development throws quite a different light on the Newman investigation. Even if we wanted to close the matter now, we cannot do so. I’ve already spoken to the Prime Minister about this and he agrees that the American request makes it imperative that we continue to investigate Newman fully and urgently. This has now become a political question, and a rather sensitive one at that, which will no doubt receive a great deal of publicity in due course.’

  Blackburn put his hands in his pockets and began to pace up and down behind his desk. ‘Consequently, not only do we have to actively pursue every reasonable avenue of inquiry, it must also be apparent that we do so. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Absolutely, Sir.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Blackburn stopped and reached for Jana’s report. ‘I have a few questions regarding the Swiss wartime banking connections with Nazi Germany you mention here,’ he said politely, changing direction. Jana had been warned about this. Apparently Blackburn had a phenomenal memory and carefully read every relevant document before a meeting. He expected his staff to be fully briefed on all issues and frequently tested their knowledge and level of preparation with probing questions. Jana sensed that this was such an occasion.

  ‘You state here,’ he said, ‘that: According to recent research carried out by the World Jewish Congress, the Nazi war machine could not have rolled across Europe without access to an international banking system. It could not have purchased the raw materials needed to keep its foundries, its shipyards and munitions factories operational, without a regular supply of hard currency acceptable to its trading partners. Throughout the war the Swiss supplied both, the Swiss franc as the much coveted and internationally acceptable currency, and their banks to facilitate payment. Huge amounts of gold were transferred by the Nazis to Switzerland, mainly through the Reichsbank, or smuggled into the country by various clandestine means.

  ‘Most of the gold was looted from the conquered treasuries of occupied countries, or stolen from murdered Jews. The gold was purchased by the Swiss with Swiss francs, thus providing Berlin with the currency it needed to keep its industry functioning. Have the banks involved been identified?’ asked Blackburn, watching Jana carefully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unbelievable!’ said Blackburn, dropping Jana’s report on his desk.

  ‘The documents speak for themselves, Sir,’ Jana pointed out, reaching for her own copy of the report. ‘During his trial in May 1946,’ Jana read from the research material she had obtained from the World Jewish Congress, ‘a very contrite and well informed Emil Puhl, the vice president of the Reichsbank, testified that his superior, Walther Funk, the president of the Reichsbank, was in charge of the grizzly SS gold deliveries from the concentration camps. Apparently, the gold looted from the victims’ possessions on their way to the gas chambers, and after their murder from their bodies, was melted down, often mixed with gold from other sources to disguise its true origin and given a new, “respectable” identity acceptable to the Swiss bankers, before being transferred to “neutral” Switzerland.’ Jana closed the report and looked calmly at Blackburn. ‘These controversial gold deposits and the fortunes paid by trusting Jews into Swiss banks prior to the war are the subject of the current investigation by a New York Senator. They form the basis of the American class action against the Swiss.’

  ‘I wish to make one thing very clear,’ announced Blackburn. ‘If a war criminal is in fact hiding in our country, this government is totally committed to bringing him to justice. We have the legislation, the power and the will. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, Sir.’

  Spoken like a true politician; he can’t help himself, thought Cunningham. ‘How do you wish us to proceed?’ he asked, well aware that he would now be personally responsible for the future conduct of the investigation. He was determined to obtain clear instructions in such a delicate matter before the meeting was over and Blackburn was otherwise occupied.

  ‘I think we need a senior prosecutor, immediately. He should consider all the available evidence so you’ll involve him in the investigation from the very beginning. This way, he can get an intimate knowledge of all the facts. Ultimately, he’ll be in an excellent position to determine whether or not an indictment is warranted. We cannot afford half measures here.’

  ‘I entirely agree,’ Cunningham concurred, obviously relieved by Blackburn’s suggestion. This meant that the responsibility would now be shared from the outset. ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’

  ‘In my view, this case calls for an outside appointment. What I mean is, we should turn to the private bar and brief a senior criminal specialist rather than hand the matter to a public prosecutor employed by the State. That way we can’t be accused of bias. We must appear totally fair at all times. Transparency, we must have transparency! We need someone really special; tact and experience is what I’m looking for. Can you recommend someone?’

  ‘It’s an excellent idea, Sir,’ Cunningham replied, playing for time. ‘Let me see ...’ He sensed danger. In asking for his recommendation, Blackburn was placing the responsibility for the selection of the prosecutor back on his shoulders. This was a serious matter. A successful public servant had to make sure he was always covered.

  ‘Marcus Carrington would be a good choice, Sir. He acts mainly as a defender as you know, but as you will recall, he has successfully prosecuted a number of high profile cases for the Crown – complicated ones. He has also served as an acting judge.’ This was a shrewd suggestion. As Cunningham well knew, Marcus Aurelius Carrington QC was one of Blackburn’s closest friends. They had gone to law school together and shared the university medal in their final year. If Blackburn approved the appointment, he was unlikely to criticise the recommendation later on. And besides, Carrington was one of the best criminal barristers in the country.

  ‘You’re right; Marcus would be an excellent choice for a number of reasons ...’ Blackburn agreed. ‘He’s a terrier with brains – a rare combination, especially in the law. And we can trust his judgement. That’s precisely what this case needs. He’s our man.’ As a close friend, Blackburn could hardly have put Carrington’s name forward himself. Yet, Cunningham suspected it was Carrington that Blackburn really had in mind. As an experienced tactician, Blackburn knew exactly how to get what he wanted.

  ‘It’s settled then, but come to think of it, there’s one little problem,’ said Blackburn, turning towards Jana.

  ‘A problem?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll have to deliver the brief personally and persuade Mr Carrington to accept the appointment.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I will try to see him tomorrow and do my best.’

  ‘I’m sure you will try, but it will not be quite as simple as you think.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to travel again. Marcus Carrington is presently overseas on sabbatical. He’s taken some time off to pursue his great passion.’

  Jana frowned. ‘What is this great passion, Sir?’

  ‘Archaeology.’

  ‘May I ask where?’

  ‘Egypt.’

  18

  The burial complex was deep below ground. A simple, hand-operated winch straddled the mouth of a narrow, vertical shaft connecting the tomb to the world of the living. Stepping into the canvas sling, Marc
us Carrington signalled to the workmen to begin the descent. At the bottom, he adjusted his torch, collected his tools and turned towards the burial chamber. Except for a large sarcophagus with its lid broken, the tomb was empty. Tomb robbers, thought Carrington, pointing the beam of light towards the limestone chest.

  The first thing he noticed was the unusual position of the sarcophagus. It should have been placed under the ledge cut into the back wall, not along the side of the chamber. Perhaps it’s been moved, he thought, or it was just left like that during a hasty burial?

  Carrington began to examine the hieroglyphs carved into the side of the lid. When he reached for the tracing paper, his pencil fell behind the limestone chest. Running his hand along the side of the sarcophagus, Carrington discovered a small gap between the chamber wall and the lid. He went down on his hands and knees and reached behind the chest. Searching for the pencil, he touched something hard and smooth sticking out of the rubble, like an accusing finger pointing out of the netherworld. This is strange, he thought, brushing the sand away with the palm of his hand.

  Lifting the torch above the rim of the limestone chest, he pressed his cheek against the chamber wall for a closer look. The weak cone of light crept along the floor and stopped in front of a piece of black polished stone protruding out of the rubble. Carrington’s mouth went dry. There was a hole under the sarcophagus and something was buried in it.

  Carrington returned with four Egyptian labourers armed with shovels, crowbars and pieces of timber. Easing the heavy limestone chest away from the wall, they exposed a small shaft filled with sand. Instead of using a shovel, Carrington continued to dig with his bare hands. Slowly, the stone began to take shape. It looks like ... a crown, he thought, polished diorite. And a crown is never alone – it’s worn on the head!

  The workmen stopped their chatter and watched in awe as the serene face of a young man began to rise out of the sand. ‘This is not a man, this is a king!’ shouted Carrington, uncovering the intricately carved false beard – one of the insignia of ancient Egyptian royal power. Leaning forward, Carrington’s forehead almost touched the cool stone and he found himself face to face with a god-king staring calmly into eternity.

  ‘Only the pharaoh wore the false beard and the crown. Come, Mustafa, help me.’ Carrington stepped back from the haunting image, aimed the torch at the statue and smiled. The strange shape of the pharaoh’s head and the peculiar features of his long face were unmistakable.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked Mustafa, standing next to the statue. ‘Look at him carefully.’ Mustafa shook his head. ‘You don’t?’ Carrington traced the uraeus, the exquisite little cobra on the pharaoh’s forehead, with the tips of his fingers. ‘But I do!’ he said, laughing.

  19

  ‘The Australians are over there, next to the English,’ said the guard, pointing with his machine gun to a mound of rubble. Jana shielded her eyes from the glare and looked around. The whole of Saqqara – ancient Memphis just outside Cairo – was a hive of chaotic activity with teams of archaeologists from around the world excavating in their designated areas.

  Forming long, human chains, Egyptian labourers were handing baskets filled with sand and rubble to each other. From above, they looked like giant caterpillars gorging on the detritus of ancient Egypt. The baskets were emptied into wooden carts waiting at the end of the line. There was no machinery of any kind; everything was done manually.

  I should have worn my joggers, thought Jana, almost falling into a ditch. Damn! The labourers stopped and began to laugh. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ she asked, rubbing her ankle.

  ‘I am,’ said a tall, middle-aged man, stepping forward. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and began to wipe his sunburnt neck with a small towel. In his faded khaki shorts, a chequered shirt with dark sweat stains under the arms and cuffed boots, he looked more like a shearer from outback Queensland than a QC on sabbatical.

  ‘Marcus Carrington?’ asked Jana.

  ‘Someone from the Museum already; that was quick,’ answered Carrington. He looked at the breathless woman standing in front of him and smiled. ‘I suppose news like this does travel fast, even here. Well, do you want to have a look straight away?’ he asked, before Jana could correct him. ‘It’s a bit rough going down, but I assure you it’s worth it.’ He began to adjust the ropes.

  At first, Jana was a little taken aback by Carrington’s appearance; he was completely different from what she had expected. His exuberance, however, was infectious.

  ‘If you say so, but before I agree to descend into this dark hole with you, I think you should at least tell me what I can expect to find. One of King Tut’s mummified relatives perhaps, with a golden mask?’ Jana joked.

  ‘Wrong time, wrong place, yet a lucky guess nevertheless. His father, actually. You’re not from the Museum, are you? Forgive me, I should have noticed earlier,’ apologised Carrington. ‘This is a very special moment for us here as you can see. Discoveries like this only come along once in a lifetime. If you’re lucky,’ he added. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Jana Gonski, Australian Federal Police.’ Jana held out her hand. ‘The Attorney-General has sent me to deliver a brief to you,’ she continued. ‘I have a letter that will explain everything.’ Jana reached for her shoulder bag.

  ‘The day is full of surprises! For Rob Blackburn to send you all this way on the public purse it must be important.’ Carrington put his hat back on.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Or he’s in trouble again,’ speculated Carrington. ‘Another political fiasco no doubt; a major tax evasion case, I bet, involving an MP or a judge. That’s my guess.’

  ‘No. It’s a little more interesting than that, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh, what then?’

  ‘War crimes,’ said Jana quietly.

  ‘War crimes? In Australia? You can’t be serious!’ Carrington frowned, shaking his head.

  ‘I am. You need to read this, Sir,’ Jana said, pulling the Attorney-General’s letter out of her bag.

  ‘Please, not now, if you don’t mind. They sure know where to find you when they want to.’ Sensing his irritation, Jana slipped the letter back into her bag.

  ‘Well, are you going to show me this great discovery of yours or not?’ she asked breezily, changing the subject.

  Smart lady, Carrington thought, she knows when to back off.

  ‘Come on then, step in here and hold on tight,’ he said, spreading the canvas sling for her. ‘Mustafa, where are you?’ he shouted, calling the foreman. ‘Somehow, they’re never around when you need them,’ Carrington complained. Shrugging his shoulders, he signalled to the men operating the winch to lower them into the shaft. ‘Good help is hard to find in the desert. Put your arms around me.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Carrington asked, holding the torch high above his head. The workmen had dug the statue out of the pit and had lifted it onto a plank. Feeling a little dizzy, Jana placed her hand on the rim of the sarcophagus to steady herself.

  ‘The mummy’s still in there; the tomb robbers weren’t interested in the remains of the poor departed, only his possessions,’ Carrington explained. Jana quickly pulled her hand away without looking inside. ‘And fortunately for us, they didn’t find this.’ Carrington pointed to the statue. ‘He was buried under the sarcophagus.’

  ‘Is this the owner of the tomb?’ Jana asked, pulling herself together.

  ‘Certainly not! This is a pharaoh,’ Carrington announced proudly. ‘A very special one. The owner of the tomb was a court official, not a king. Extraordinary ...’ continued Carrington, tracing the elongated head of the statue with the tips of his fingers. ‘This is Amenhotep IV, the Heretic King. He changed his name to Akhenaten. He certainly shouldn’t be in here. I wonder ...’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time. This is an Old Kingdom cemetery dating from the third millennium BC. Akhenaten lived in the fourteenth century BC, fifteen hundred years later.’

  ‘Wha
t’s he doing here then?’

  ‘Good question. He must have been hidden in here later to preserve his image from being erased forever. After all, the fate of heretics is persecution and oblivion.’

  ‘A hidden heretic then,’ observed Jana. ‘How intriguing. What was the heresy?’

  ‘Religious reform. In Egypt, that’s about as serious as it gets. He became an outcast. Not only did he look different, he dared to be different and went against two thousand years of tradition.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By abolishing the gods.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the centre of royal and religious power at the time was Thebes, the home of the god Amun,’ Carrington explained. ‘Thousands of priests served the gods there and wielded a lot of power and influence. They depended on the gods for a living. He changed all that.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Legend has it that it all began with a vision. Apparently, the god Aten revealed himself to the pharaoh as light; the sun disk between two mountains. Akhenaten interpreted this as a sign from the god, Aten, to bring about change – change of a most fundamental kind. For the first time in recorded history, Akhenaten declared that there was only one God – Aten. In doing that, my dear, he did something ... something quite radical, alien, frightening even.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Monotheism: the concept of a single, all-powerful god. Imagine, monotheism in Egypt? Only one god in a world ruled by so many? He abolished all the other gods, erased their images and destroyed their temples. This is about as radical as it gets.’

  ‘Fascinating, I had no idea ...’ Jana said, looking at the statue. ‘You’re right though, he does look quite different. Artistic style, I suppose.’

  ‘Not quite. There’s more to it than that. Experts have carefully studied the surviving images of Akhenaten and his family and have come up with a scientific explanation for his strange appearance.’