The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Not even Asmodeus here will be able to protect the secrets of this house,’ said the major, pointing to the bust of a hideous-looking demon on a pedestal, ‘should we have to pull this place apart. Good day Madame.’

  The major returned the next morning and found a composed Madame Colbert waiting for him in the drawing room.

  ‘The documents you seek – what’s left of them that is – are hidden in Montsegur,’ she said calmly. ‘There is a cave under the ruins of the castle ... I can show you where.’

  ‘A most prudent decision, Madame,’ replied the major, obviously pleased with himself. This had turned out to be a lot easier than he had expected. ‘In return, I will personally guarantee your safety and undisturbed stay here in the villa,’ he announced.

  ‘There’s one complication,’ said Madame Colbert quietly.

  ‘Oh?’ The major was about to light up, but changed his mind and put the cigarette back into its silver case. ‘What complication?’ he demanded.

  ‘As you obviously know, the documents the Vatican was so interested in related to one matter in particular ...’

  ‘Quite so. Something very old, something mentioned in the Old Testament. It is something, we hear, that could rock the Church to its very foundations ... if the manuscripts tell the truth, that is,’ interrupted the major. He could never resist an opportunity to show his knowledge.

  ‘Monsieur, I’m afraid the documents you really want have gone,’ explained Madame Colbert.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The major sensed danger.

  ‘I was not the only beneficiary ... the abbé has a son ...’

  ‘What? A son? Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can see you don’t believe me, but it is so.’ The old woman stood up and hobbled across the room to a small desk by the window. ‘Just before he died, the abbé gave me this.’ She opened one of the drawers, took out a neatly folded sheet of paper and handed it to the major.

  ‘By the time you read this, my dearest, I will be in the Lord’s hands,’ the major began to read aloud. He spoke slowly, because Diderot’s tiny handwriting was difficult to decipher. ‘There is one last act of kindness I ask of you, one that is more important than all the others you have shown me over the years. You know of my son; you know where to find him. Go and visit him and give him my letter and these parchments. Please, I implore you, you must hand them to him personally. My letter will explain everything. One day he will understand what they mean. They have the power to change the world. With love, here and in eternity, Berenger Diderot.’

  The major folded the sheet of paper carefully along its creases and looked at Madame Colbert; he noticed she was crying. ‘Please,’ he said, quietly, ‘tell me about the son.’

  Madame Colbert shook her head.

  ‘The son!’ bellowed the major.

  Madame Colbert looked up, frightened. ‘Soon after the abbé discovered the manuscripts hidden in the church, he took them to Paris.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To show them to ... some learned people with rather exotic interests,’ explained Madame Colbert. ‘One of them was Francine Bijoux. Do you know who Francine Bijoux was, Monsieur?’

  ‘A famous singer, I believe.’

  ‘Yes; she was a celebrated diva ... probably the most well known at the time. She was also an occultist, you know. They became infatuated with each other ...’ Madame Colbert pulled a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her dress and began to wipe away the tears. ‘Please forgive me. She visited here often, and then ... she ... had a son.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘1892. It was all hushed up of course. Having an illegitimate child didn’t quite go with her glamorous career. The abbé’s involvement was covered up as well.’

  ‘What happened to the child?’

  ‘She didn’t keep the boy; he was put up for adoption virtually straight away. Close friends of hers – a childless couple, musicians I believe – took him in and raised him.’

  The major stood up and began to pace up and down in front of the window. ‘When the abbé died, the boy would have been – twenty-five, am I right? Did you go and see him?’

  ‘Yes, I visited him in Paris and gave him the parchments and the letter, just as the abbé had wished.’

  The major stopped in front of the window and looked out into the garden. He began to squeeze his hands behind his back until the knuckles turned white. ‘Have you kept in contact with him?’ he asked, without turning around.

  ‘Only for a few years. When I met him in Paris he was already an accomplished musician. After that, we lost touch. He got married and moved to Warsaw, I believe.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Madame Colbert did not reply.

  ‘His name, Madame,’ the major asked again, raising his voice. ‘I want his name.’

  ‘Krakowski, the name of his adoptive parents. Russian émigrés – a Jewish couple.’

  The major continued to look out the window. ‘And his first name?’

  ‘Berenger; after his father.’ Madame Colbert kept pressing the handkerchief to her trembling mouth.

  She had told the major enough to convince him she was telling the truth – but inside she was smiling. She had not told him everything. She had not betrayed the abbé’s trust. She had not told the major what else she had given Berenger in Paris after his father’s death. Just thinking about it after all these years made her tremble. There was nothing about it in the letter she’d shown the major; the subject was far too dangerous.

  ‘I will now take you to Montsegur, Madame, and you will show me where the Templar archives are hidden,’ said the major, turning around. ‘As for Berenger Krakowski ... if he’s still alive and somewhere in the Reich, I will find him.’

  27

  Carrington stood in front of the cathedral with the other pallbearers, waiting. A single bell tolled in the steeple above – the solemn reminder of mortality announcing the arrival of the hearses.

  Jana was shocked by Carrington’s appearance. Straining under the weight of his daughter’s coffin, he looked vulnerable and frail. Even the coffin is weeping, she thought, looking at the raindrops glistening like tears on the polished wood. Jana hadn’t seen Carrington since the Luxor massacre. Could grief age a man so much, so quickly?

  Jana only remembered fragments of what had happened at the temple that night. Most of her recollections were a blur of panic and confusion. The funeral service brought the painful memories flooding back all at once: the screams, the fear, the maimed bodies, the smell of death, the blood.

  The pallbearers placed the two identical coffins on top of the biers waiting in front of the altar and stepped back. Without the pallbearers, the coffins looked like two lonely islands floating in a sea of flowers.

  Jana tried in vain to block the haunting image of Isabella’s mutilated face, and the terror in Elizabeth Carrington’s open eyes, frozen in death. Jana covered her face with both hands and tried to pray. She hadn’t prayed in years and the only words that came to her were those of a simple childhood prayer. The long-forgotten, yet still familiar words began to calm her.

  During the chaos after the carnage, Jana had assumed that Carrington had been killed as well. When Haddad found her at the airport and told her that Carrington was in fact alive and recovering in a military hospital in Alexandria, she cried with joy. But to visit him there was out of the question, Haddad had explained.

  After the burial, Carrington thanked each of the mourners personally. Jana was one of the last to file past the two mounds of wet clay grieving in the rain. The wilting flowers and muddy wreaths reminded Jana of mortality, decay and the relentless passage of time. Momentarily overcome by the sadness of the moment, she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Thank you, Jana,’ she heard him say, his voice sounding distant. He brushed his cold lips fleetingly against her cheek and, putting his arm around her, slipped something into her hand.

  ‘Please keep this for me,’ he whispered, and let her go.


  Jana looked briefly at the object in her hand, then asked Carrington quietly, ‘Remember the man with the biblical face we met at the temple before the performance?’

  ‘The one we called Balthazar?’

  ‘Yes. Haddad showed me some film footage ... The man was a terrorist – most probably the leader.’ Carrington didn’t reply and Jana couldn’t be sure he had heard her.

  Jana threaded her way through neat rows of muddy graves and hurried back to the car park. She took cover under the lichgate and wiped away the tears. When she opened her hand, she recognised the small tip of Akhenaten’s beard.

  ‘Come,’ said the priest, putting his hand on Carrington’s shoulder, ‘it’s time to go.’ Carrington didn’t hear him and kept staring at the graves. After a while, he turned around and followed the priest out of the deserted cemetery.

  Carrington hadn’t slept in days and was feeling quite ill. Sitting alone in his empty study, the crushing realisation of what had occurred that morning began to overwhelm him. He had just buried his family; his wife and daughter were gone forever. He would never see them again or be able to touch their faces; their laughter was but a memory. Carrington began to shake. For the first time since the massacre he was able to let go. Tears streamed down his wan face. He felt dizzy and had to hold the desk to steady himself. He closed his eyes and drifted into a restless slumber.

  Suddenly, the serene face of Akhenaten floated out of the shadows. The pharaoh raised his long right arm and pointed to the sarcophagus, just as he had done in the dream back in the boarding house in Saqqara. The heavy lid began to lift slowly all by itself until it was suspended in mid air, hovering weightlessly above the limestone chest. Once again, Carrington found himself irresistibly drawn towards the open sarcophagus. He walked over to it through pools of blood and looked inside. This time, however, he was not woken by his own screams. Instead, he was staring at his dead wife and daughter lying side by side on a bed of flowers.

  The fax machine on the desk clicked into action. A single page fell into the tray with a beep, signalling the end of the transmission. Carrington woke with a start, switched on the light and wiped his burning face with his handkerchief. Reaching for his glasses and the page simultaneously, he began to read:

  My dearest friend,

  As you will have realised by now, I have unfortunately been unable to make it to the funeral after all. Please forgive me. That you have lost your family in such barbaric circumstances in my country fills me with deep shame and regret. You have my solemn promise that I will not rest until the perpetrators are brought to justice. I know this is cold comfort just now, but you should know that we have made some progress. I think we may have found the stolen statue.

  Carrington’s vision blurred and the hand holding the fax began to shake.

  I am presently waiting for confirmation and will call you later tonight, your time. I may need your help with identification. My thoughts are with you, and remember, even in the middle of the darkest night, the bright light of the morning is never too far away.

  Your grieving friend,

  Naguib.

  Carrington crushed the fax into a tiny ball with his right hand until the knuckles turned white and his fingernails dug deep into his palm. ‘Thank you, Naguib,’ he whispered. ‘I owe you.’

  28

  The remote beach house, built of corrugated iron, scavenged driftwood and glass, had an uninterrupted view of the sea. Jack limped out onto the terrace, picked up his binoculars and began to watch a pod of dolphins glide through the surf close to shore.

  Jana checked the address again and then tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and walked inside.

  ‘There are obviously no active burglars in this neighbourhood,’ Jana called out, kicking off her shoes. She could see Jack standing on the terrace.

  ‘Only seagulls and dolphins,’ replied Jack, turning around. ‘Come, say hello to my friends.’ He pointed to the dolphins. Jana dropped her overnight bag and flew into his outstretched arms. ‘Careful now, I’m an invalid, remember?’ Jack warned, hugging her tightly.

  They made love that whole afternoon with a passion that was both furious and tender. Jana desperately needed to feel alive after Luxor and the funeral. Jack sensed this and responded to her need, despite the pain in his chest and the cramps in his leg.

  The bandages had been removed from his head and his hair was slowly growing back. Jana told him he looked like an American naval recruit with an ambitious crew cut, one who’d recently been in a fight with his cutlery – and lost. The scars were healing well. Jack didn’t tell her that his internal injuries were still painful and occasionally bleeding and that the limp could be permanent; she might have regretted their lovemaking. The doctors recommended rest and exercise. An architect friend had given Jack the keys to his hideaway on the far North Coast and told him to stay as long as he liked.

  Strolling along the deserted beach with Jack, Jana relaxed. Slowly, she began to tell him about Egypt.

  ‘What happens now? Will Carrington continue?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. He just buried his family; I guess no one had the courage to ask him. I told his clerk where I was going and left my phone number. Just in case.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your boss?’

  ‘Sure. He was of course shocked by it all, but noncommittal. He suggested I take a few days off to let things settle down.’

  ‘Excellent advice. Thank you boss,’ Jack said, kissing Jana on the neck.

  ‘What about you? Have you found out anything else?’

  ‘For the first few days up here, the only surfing I was able to do was on the internet,’ Jack explained, laughing. ‘It paid off. I have something to show you, come.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ Jana purred softly, walking the tips of her fingers slowly down Jack’s back.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, you hear. Can’t you see I’m an invalid? Have you no pity at all?’

  ‘No! Just leave it all to me. You won’t have to do a thing. Well, perhaps just a little ...’

  ‘Oh yeah? Promises, promises. Last time ...’

  ‘Is this a complaint?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘In that case, follow me.’

  Jana woke with a fright and propped herself up on her elbows. A phone was ringing somewhere in the dark. Jack was asleep next to her, breathing calmly. She remembered the last time she was woken by a phone call in the middle of the night and began to shiver. She put her hand on Jack’s shoulder to reassure herself that he was really there. Jana recognised the ring tone of her mobile. She got out of bed, walked into the hallway and answered the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Jana said hoarsely, trying to calm herself.

  ‘Jana, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘Marcus Carrington. I’m sorry to wake you at this hour, but it’s quite urgent I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jana sat down on the floor.

  ‘Haddad just called with some extraordinary news.’

  ‘What about?’ Jana asked, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘Apparently, they’ve found the statue.’ A light came on in the bedroom and Jack appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In London.’

  ‘In London?’ Jana repeated, unable to hide her surprise. Jack knelt down behind her and began to massage her neck. ‘It’s Carrington,’ she explained.

  ‘You have company, I’m sorry,’ Carrington apologised. Jana noticed a subtle change in the tone of his voice. It had lost some of its intimacy and had become a little frosty and formal.

  ‘It’s all right, really, please go on,’ Jana said, trying to put him at ease.

  ‘Shall I call back later?’

  ‘No. Please, it’s fine,’ she assured him.

  ‘Our pharaoh is about to be auctioned.’

  ‘What? Auctioned? When?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  �
��So soon! How do we know it’s him?’

  ‘Well, we cannot be absolutely sure, but wait till you see this. Do you have your laptop with you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll turn it on.’

  ‘This is what alerted Haddad,’ Carrington explained. ‘I’ll email it to you now and you can tell me what you think.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jana asked, waiting for the email to come through.

  ‘An addendum to an auction catalogue with a picture of the statue on the back.’

  ‘It’s here,’ Jana said. The image was quite blurred, but the outline of Akhenaten was clearly visible. The photo was taken at an angle, showing the unusual face almost in profile. Jana noticed that the bottom part of the king’s beard was missing.

  ‘What do you think?’ Carrington demanded impatiently.

  ‘The beard – I think it’s him!’ Jana almost shouted.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We go to London and stop the auction.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ Jana asked. As soon as she said it she realised just how foolish it sounded.

  ‘You and I, of course. We’re the only ones who can identify him, remember? Haddad is convinced the theft of the statue is somehow connected with the terrorists,’ Carrington pointed out. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Attorney-General,’ he continued, anticipating her next question.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wants you to come with me. The Government has received an official request for assistance from Egypt and the CIA,’ Carrington explained. ‘The Americans are about to bomb a terrorist training camp somewhere in the Sudan in retaliation for Luxor. Believe me, they need every lead they can get, but please, keep this to yourself,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘We’re booked on a Qantas flight to London leaving at 8 pm tonight. Haddad will meet us in London. It’s cutting it fine, but we should just make it. Can you get back to Sydney in time?’ Carrington asked anxiously.