‘If I’m fortunate enough to go to the opera with three charming ladies, the least I can do is provide proper transportation, don’t you think?’ replied Carrington, laughing. He walked across to the carriage, took a bow and opened the door for his wife.
‘How romantic. Another one of your local contacts, no doubt,’ observed Jana, squeezing into the narrow seat next to Isabella. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘It’s quite simple, really. What you see at work here, my dear, is the power of baksheesh,’ Carrington joked. ‘Isn’t that right, Abdul?’ he added, leaning conspiratorially towards the driver. The grinning coachman turned around and winked at him. Carrington said something in Arabic and Abdul lashed out with a long whip. To everyone’s amazement, the scrawny horse was able to pull the carriage with relative ease and even managed a reasonable trot. ‘The power of fear, no doubt,’ said Carrington, leaning back in his seat.
The short trip from the wharf to the temple took over an hour. Threading its way through the raucous crowd choking the road, the carriage was mobbed by curious locals eager to get a glimpse of the foreigners flocking to the temple. Adding to the chaos, army trucks crammed with soldiers tried to push past frightened donkeys and temperamental camels returning from the fields.
‘This is better than any opera,’ shouted Carrington, turning around. ‘There, look.’ He pointed to a street urchin hitching a ride on the back of the carriage. Grinning mischievously, the boy was playing with Isabella’s long blonde hair. Elizabeth Carrington placed the palm of her hand affectionately against her husband’s cheek. Jana noticed that the shadow of sadness she had observed the night before had not left Elizabeth Carrington’s face.
‘Contrary to popular belief, Aida was commissioned by the Khedive of Egypt for the opening of the Italian Theatre and not for the opening of the Suez Canal,’ explained Carrington, joining the long queue in front of the temple. Sudanese boys dressed in billowing pantaloons, embroidered vests and bejewelled silk turbans were showing the guests to their seats. Jana recognised several famous faces in the crowd. Somewhere in the background, an orchestra was playing a medley of Verdi melodies.
‘We’re a little early, come, let’s go through there. I want to show you something,’ said Carrington, pointing to a narrow opening in the temple wall.
‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed Sheikh Omar, adjusting the suicide vest of the young man standing next to him. ‘Hold still!’
‘I seem to remember you can get to the court of Ramses and the Great Colonnade of Amenhotep through here,’ explained Carrington. ‘And, would you believe, there’s a mosque in there as well – Abu el Hagag.’
‘Good evening, Sir,’ said Sheikh Omar, stepping out of the shadows, ‘I think you’re going the wrong way.’ He bowed politely. ‘All the seats are over there ...’
‘I know; I just wanted to show my wife the Hypostyle Hall before the performance. I seem to remember it’s just in there ...’
Jana looked at the man in the striking blue robe and exotic turban. He must be part of the cast, she thought.
‘You cannot go through here,’ explained Sheikh Omar, blocking the way, ‘not tonight, I’m afraid – preparations. I’m sure you understand.’ He smiled at Jana. ‘You should try that way.’ He pointed to the other end of the forecourt. He has beautiful hands, Jana thought, and what a voice!
‘Thank you, perhaps later then,’ replied Carrington, turning around.
‘Enjoy the performance,’ said Sheikh Omar, touching his forehead.
‘What a fascinating man,’ Jana observed, walking back into the crowded forecourt. ‘He could have stepped straight out of a nativity scene ...’
‘You mean, as one of the Three Wise Men bearing gifts? Which one would you suggest – Caspar, Melchior or perhaps Balthazar?’ Carrington joked.
‘Exactly. He does have an almost biblical face, don’t you think?’ Jana asked. ‘White beard and all; I’d go for Balthazar.’
‘And those eyes ...’ Isabella interjected, ‘like burning coals ...’
‘Carefully chosen for the performance, no doubt,’ ventured Elizabeth Carrington, ‘and already dressed for the occasion.’
‘All right, guys, enough. I get the picture. He’s probably a tour guide in real life,’ Carrington said, showing their tickets to one of the cute black boys.
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ asked Carrington, turning towards Jana.
‘The best seat in the house and an opportunity to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. What more could a woman want? Thanks Marcus.’
‘Don’t thank me, this is the man who arranged it all,’ replied Carrington, pointing to a short, barrel-chested man in a white linen suit and Panama hat. ‘You’re sitting next to him.’
‘Good evening, Naguib,’ said Carrington, embracing the little man. ‘This is Chief Inspector Haddad, our host,’ he explained, introducing his friend. ‘You two have a lot in common, professionally speaking, that is,’ Carrington said to Jana, lowering his voice. ‘Both of you chase bad guys for a living. He’s the one who organised your ticket. Be nice to him.’
‘How come you know him so well?’
‘We’ve been friends for a long time. We met at a legal conference in London a few years ago. My passion for Egypt was irresistible ...’ joked Carrington.
Jana towered over Haddad. She looked at him and smiled. He looked at her long legs and thought, How wonderful, and smiled back.
26
Sheikh Omar covered his face with his scarf and looked through the gap in the temple wall. Excellent, he thought. The late arrivals were being seated. Let the show begin!
A hush fell over the excited spectators, anticipation growing with every heartbeat. Then, softly at first, Verdi’s stirring music began to rise up. Instead of a parting curtain, beams of coloured light washed over the stage. Slowly, the performers materialised out of the gloom and the spellbound audience began to clap and cheer.
The high priest, Ramfis, an Italian bass, was telling the Captain of the Guard, Radames, a famous American tenor, that the gods had already made their choice. Celeste Aida, the sublime aria, brought the house down.
‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Haddad, scanning the empty space under the TV transmission towers with his opera glasses. He was searching in vain for the security guards supposed to patrol that area.
‘But he was magnificent,’ protested Jana, applauding enthusiastically.
‘I’m not talking about the singing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Gut feeling; you know how it is. After a while you see trouble brewing everywhere,’ replied Haddad quietly, without removing his glasses. ‘This place is one big trap and we are sitting right in the middle of it.’
Something cold tingled down Jana’s spine. There was an odd familiarity about the feeling and she reached instinctively for the scar on her left shoulder. The old bullet wound was a permanent reminder of a stake-out gone terribly wrong. This only heightened her apprehension and tiny beads of perspiration began to appear on her upper lip.
Danger, she thought. There’s real danger here. That’s what he means. Jana turned towards Carrington, sitting to her right. She wanted to warn him about something, but didn’t know how. Her throat went dry and she began to cough. Carrington looked at her and smiled without noticing her distress. Gradually, the applause ebbed away, the lights went out again and the wonderful music continued.
Then suddenly the darkness parted and a procession of torchbearers marched through a narrow gap in the temple wall. They were followed by Sudanese drummers wearing only leopard skin loin cloths, their black bodies casting flickering shadows across the spectators sitting in the front. The highlight of the opera, the famous Victory March, had begun.
By the time the decorated war elephants made their entry, the cheering crowd was on its feet. The producers had achieved their objective: the spectators had spontaneously turned into participants. Jana, too, was swept up by the excitement of the moment, tempor
arily forgetting the disturbing premonition.
The first explosion almost went unnoticed. A grenade dropped from the top of the TV transmission tower at the back of the audience ripped into the unsuspecting spectators applauding below. Sheikh Omar looked at his watch and nodded. ‘Allah, be praised, it has begun,’ he whispered excitedly and reached for the scimitar hidden between the copious folds of his robe. The touch of the razor-sharp blade appeared to calm him. It was a promise of things to come.
Haddad’s trained ear had picked up the vibrations of the unusual thud. Turning his head, he saw a flash of yellow light out of the corner of his eye. He realised instantly what it was. Then a second grenade exploded, spraying the spectators with a deadly shower of hot shrapnel and body parts.
The orchestra is next, thought Sheikh Omar, listening to the screams of the maimed and dying. The young suicide bomber playing in the orchestra turned towards Mecca, prepared himself for paradise and detonated the explosives strapped to his chest. The force of the blast turned musical instruments into whistling messengers of death and sent twisted kettle drums and trombones flying – some with hands still attached and dripping with blood. A piece of the harp severed the power cables under the stage. Spewing sparks and hissing madly, the cables twisted and turned like a headless hydra fighting a phantom.
A young man marching behind the elephants whispered ‘Allah akbar’ and pulled a grenade out of his robes.
‘Get down!’ shouted Haddad. He reached for his gun and began to fire. As the gun went off, Jana tripped, hit her head on the metal seat next to her and fell face down to the ground.
Haddad shot the man holding the grenade in the head, but was a fraction of a second too late. Just before he died, the young martyr pulled the detonation cord attached to his suicide vest and turned himself into a human bomb. A particularly nasty bomb, designed to cause maximum damage at close range.
A long, bent nail grazed Carrington’s forehead, glanced off his temple and entered Isabella’s eye. Instinctively, Elizabeth Carrington threw herself forward, trying to shield her injured daughter. Moments later, a handful of ball bearings slammed into her back, killing her instantly. Bleeding profusely, Isabella collapsed on top of her unconscious father, her body ripped apart by a second blast of deadly shrapnel just before she died.
The trained elephants turned into frightened beasts and began to stampede, carving a trail of destruction through the rows of screaming spectators. Instead of protecting the guests, the bewildered soldiers were adding to the confusion by firing their weapons aimlessly into the air, unable to identify their foe.
The stallions pulling the chariot bolted. Radames lost his grip on the reins and was thrown sideways onto the burning stage. Momentarily trapped by the chariot, the terrified elephants smashed the wooden cart with the lions’ cage to pieces. The cage tipped over, pinning Radames to the ground under its heavy frame.
One more, thought Sheikh Omar, just as the last suicide bomber blew himself up at the exit, and then it’s time! Satisfied, he looked around: the carnage was complete. The right moment had arrived.
Sheikh Omar took a deep breath and reached for his sword, his hand trembling with excitement. To show his followers that he was truly the Chosen One, he needed an act of symbolic significance. He was determined not disappoint them. What he was about to do, in plain view of the world watching his every move, would be etched into the memory of millions for decades to come.
Before stepping out of the shadows, he adjusted his turban and scarf to hide his face and then walked slowly across to Radames.
The Captain of the Guard was still alive. Standing over him like an avenging angel, Sheikh Omar raised his gleaming scimitar up high. For what seemed an eternity, the razor-sharp blade stood still, reflecting the flames devouring the stage behind him. Then, shouting, ‘Allah akbar,’ he brought the heavy blade swiftly down, cutting off Radames’ head with one clean stroke.
The triumphant executioner turned towards the TV cameras – face concealed, but eyes burning with zeal – and pointed the tip of his sword to the bloody head lying at his feet. It was an unmistakable message sent to the living rooms of a gasping world. For an instant he stood quite still, like a statue, and then vanished into the darkness, like a ghost.
PART II
SECRETS
Carcassonne; February 1944
The black convertible Mercedes pulled up in front of Villa Bethania. Brushing a speck of dust off his tunic, the major adjusted his cap and got out of the car. ‘Announce me,’ he said.
The driver walked across to the villa and rang the bell. A small, elderly woman opened the door and squinted at him through her lorgnette. She looked like a surprised owl scrutinising its prey, unsure whether to pounce on it or let it go.
‘Madame Colbert?’ asked the major, stepping forward. The woman nodded. ‘Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger,’ he said, clicking his heels together. ‘May I come in?’ He followed the woman into the drawing room on the ground floor.
‘You have heard of our little excavations?’ The woman nodded again. ‘Good. I am sure you know what we are looking for.’ The woman shook her head.
‘Very well then.’ Annoyed, the major scrutinised the little woman in front of him. ‘You were Abbé Diderot’s housekeeper for many years. No, that’s not quite right, is it?’ the major corrected himself. ‘You were much more than that. Companion and confidante would be far more accurate, don’t you agree? In fact, you were at his side when he died. Now, as his sole beneficiary you were privy to all his secrets – correct? And he was certainly a man of secrets and intrigue ...’
‘You are obviously well informed, Monsieur.’
The major smiled; Madame Colbert was about to find out just how well informed he really was. ‘The abbé refused to explain the source of his sudden – dare I say staggering – wealth and this caused a lot of controversy at the time. Not only in the parish, but with his superiors in the Church as well, I believe. So much so,’ the major continued, ‘that for a while he was suspended by his bishop for alleged simony, but later reinstated by the Vatican on appeal.’ The major paused and lit a cigarette. ‘What a silly accusation; selling masses to his parishioners. He was selling something quite different, was he not, Madame?’
Madame Colbert paled, visibly shaken, but once again did not reply.
‘To remain silent is not helpful, Madame. Allow me to assist. The Vatican was involved in all this – correct?’ The major was beginning to enjoy himself. He was well versed in the subtle art of interrogation and knew exactly how to create the impression that he knew a lot more than he did. Fear would usually do the rest and loosen the tongue.
‘You must understand all this was a long time ago. I’m just an old woman living here alone. Why ...?’
‘And quite comfortably I can see,’ interrupted the major. ‘The abbé left you a beautiful house, Madame. A house full of memories and secrets. I am sure you wouldn’t wish to leave it,’ he said quietly, introducing the threat.
‘No, I would not,’ whispered Madame Colbert, playing nervously with her lorgnette.
‘And there is no reason why you should have to,’ the major reassured her, ‘if you help me, that is.’
‘What do you want from me, Monsieur?’
‘We are beginning to understand each other – good. The Fuehrer has taken a personal interest in this matter, the importance of that speaks for itself. So let me be frank.’ The major ground the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray on the table. ‘The abbé discovered a cache of old manuscripts during the restoration of his village church in the 1890s.’ Madame Colbert sat up as if pricked by a hot needle from behind. ‘The Church authorities became very interested in this discovery, right? However,’ continued the major, leaning across to Madame Colbert sitting opposite, ‘there was more, much, much more ...’ he whispered.
The major thought he detected a flicker of fear in the eyes of the otherwise calm woman. ‘The documents the abbé found in the hollow altar pilla
r were only the beginning, is that not so? The first few pages pointing the way, so to speak, to a treasure trove – the legendary archives of the Knights Templar.’ The major paused, to allow the words to find their mark.
‘In fact,’ the major paused again, enjoying the suspense, ‘the abbé was selling the Templar archives to the Vatican. That was the true source of his wealth, am I right?’
For a while, Madame Colbert sat quite still, without looking at the major. Then slowly, she nodded her head. The major began to smile; the door had been opened.
‘The abbé was – shall we say – a cautious man. He sold the documents in instalments, one bundle at a time, keeping back some of the more important ones for later. No amount of inducement or threat could persuade him to do otherwise. Rather ingenious. However, his sudden death in 1917 brought all this to an abrupt end, did it not?’ Madame Colbert nodded again. ‘The obvious question remains: Where are the documents he did not sell to the Vatican? Can you help me with that?’
‘No! I don’t know where they are. He died suddenly. He had his secrets. I ... I ... don’t ...’
‘But not from you, Madame,’ interrupted the major, raising his voice. Madame Colbert began to search for her handkerchief.
‘Please calm yourself. It is quite simple really. If you cannot help me find the remaining archives you will force me to look for them myself – right here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This villa will be taken apart, brick by brick, until I find what I’m looking for. The Templar archives are somewhere right here – here with you!’
‘You are mistaken, Monsieur!’ shrieked the old woman.
‘You have until tomorrow to give me your final answer. I will return in the morning. Please think it over – carefully.’ The major stood up. ‘One of my officers will stay with you – just as a precaution – I am sure you understand.’ The major turned on his heels and walked towards the door.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 12
