The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Favourite bomber jacket and t-shirt in winter? This is Poland, not the Sunshine Coast!’

  ‘It was summer when I left home and I was in a hurry – so? And I did bring a jumper ...’

  ‘Really? Where is it?’

  Jack looked sheepish. ‘Well ... I didn’t have a chance to unpack yet,’ he said.

  ‘You’re incorrigible, Jack Rogan. You know that, don’t you?’

  Jack realised he was losing and looked out the car window. ‘What about Finkelstein? What did he tell you?’ he asked, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Later. Shut up and kiss me.’

  33

  After the auction debacle, Farim panicked and left London. Returning to Egypt, however, had quickly turned into a nightmare.

  Haddad was getting worried; Farim hadn’t provided him with a single piece of useful information since his arrest at Cairo airport the day before. The interrogation was going nowhere. It was time to turn up the heat.

  ‘You haven’t written a single word,’ Haddad shouted, pointing angrily to the blank page on the table. Farim didn’t reply.

  ‘No names, then. I thought you were smarter than that.’ Haddad turned around and called the guard.

  ‘Wait, I want to make a deal,’ Farim pleaded, barely able to see. The swelling around his broken nose and battered cheeks had almost closed his eyes.

  ‘You are in no position to bargain with me, you miserable cur,’ thundered Haddad.

  ‘I’ve been given very little encouragement to help you,’ Farim continued undeterred. ‘If I tell you everything I know, I will rot here in jail – possibly for the rest of my short life – and if I don’t, you put me back on the streets and circulate rumours that will almost certainly get me killed. Hardly an attractive choice, is it?’ Haddad looked at Farim and frowned. He was convinced that Farim knew the mastermind behind the Luxor attack. To see him dead would achieve nothing. On the other hand ...

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Haddad asked, lighting a cigarette. Farim managed a smile. He could see that Haddad was interested.

  ‘A little nicotine would certainly assist my memory,’ suggested the irrepressible Farim. Haddad gave him the cigarette and lit another for himself. Farim inhaled greedily.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I know the man you’re after and I can take you to him.’ He paused, allowing the words to find their mark. ‘It will not be easy, but I think I can do it. In return, I want a new passport, a new identity and permission to leave Egypt – for good.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Haddad looked at Farim with grudging respect. He had to admit, the man had courage and knew how to bargain. If he could deliver what he claimed, the deal was worth considering.

  ‘How long would it take you to find him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s no longer in Egypt, you see ...’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Haddad asked, watching Farim carefully.

  ‘The man you want is the founder of the Islamic Brotherhood for the Liberation of Holy Places. He’s the one who decapitated the American singer at Luxor.’

  ‘I know all that,’ Haddad interrupted impatiently. Farim smiled at him and shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps so. But you may not know that immediately after the Luxor incident he joined a caravan and went on a pilgrimage; a pious man, no doubt. No wonder his followers believe he is the “Chosen One”. He’s in Mecca right now, directing his mullahs from there.’

  Haddad looked impressed. This ‘Chosen One’ is obviously not only an utterly ruthless fanatic, but a clever, well-organised leader as well, he thought. To hide in Mecca was quite ingenious. To reach him there – even with Farim’s help – would be virtually impossible.

  ‘What’s his name?’ demanded Haddad.

  ‘Not so quickly,’ Farim replied, enjoying himself for the first time since his arrest. He could sense he was slowly gaining the upper hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘His name.’

  ‘His followers call him the Defender of the Faith. That’s all I know.’

  ‘A nome de guerre, how original,’ Haddad said sarcastically. ‘What about his real name?’ Farim shrugged again, implying he knew more. ‘And this Australian banker, the one who was with you and the Russian at the auction? What’s his part in all this?’

  ‘Tell me we have a deal and I’ll tell you all about him as well.’

  Haddad began to pace up and down in the tiny cell like a caged animal. It was the same cell Mustafa had died in three weeks before. He didn’t like having terms dictated to him, especially by someone as despicable as Farim. It was humiliating. He also realised he had little choice. Farim was by far his best lead, his only lead.

  He remembered Elizabeth Carrington lying on top of her dead daughter with her eyes wide open, looking accusingly, he thought, at him. He remembered his friend Marcus farewelling the two lonely coffins at Cairo airport. He remembered the promise he had made; he could not afford to lose this opportunity.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Haddad said reluctantly. He stopped in front of Farim and grabbed him roughly by the hair. Farim winced. ‘Listen carefully. You double-cross me once, only once ... and I will tear you apart with my own hands. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Farim replied, grinning at Haddad. ‘May I have another cigarette?’

  34

  The front door of the shop was open. Jana rang the bell and looked inside. ‘It’s so quiet,’ she said to Jack standing next to her. ‘Where are all the clocks?’

  ‘Mr Finkelstein,’ she called, walking towards the room in the back. There was no reply. The fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled. She reached the door at the end of the corridor and stopped to listen. Silence. ‘I don’t like this, Jack.’ The door was ajar and she pushed it slowly.

  Finkelstein was lying face down in a pool of blood with something grey and sticky-looking oozing out of his crushed scull. Next to his head on the floor was a piece of marble covered in blood. All the clocks in the ransacked room had been smashed to pieces. The floor was littered with broken glass, twisted pendulums, dented brass weights, steel springs and splinters of wood.

  ‘Jesus, look at this!’ Jack cried out. He knelt down and felt for the old man’s pulse. There was none. He looked at Jana and shook his head.

  ‘Don’t touch anything. Let’s get out of here,’ said Jana. She was turning around to leave when the front door slammed shut. ‘Did you hear that?’ Standing perfectly still, she listened to the creaking floorboards – footsteps, coming closer. The footsteps stopped. Jana turned her head and saw a large figure standing in the doorway.

  ‘Looking for something, Inspector Gonski?’ asked a man in a high-pitched, almost feminine voice. The man lit a cigarette. He was completely bald and grotesquely fat. Jana could hear him exhale and saw a puff of smoke drift slowly into the room. Instinctively, she reached for where her shoulder holster would normally be. Of course there was no gun. ‘And who have we here?’ continued the man, looking at Jack. ‘The intrepid Mr Rogan. Out of hospital already? I’d be careful if I were you.’ The man began to laugh. Jack’s eyes darted around the room, searching for another way out. There was a back door. He grabbed Jana’s arm and was about to make a run for it when the door opened and another man entered, blocking the way.

  ‘Poor old Mr Finkelstein, what a sad way to go,’ continued the falsetto voice. ‘You shouldn’t have killed him.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Jana contradicted the man, her voice sounding shrill.

  ‘I know that, but others may not believe you.’ The man began to chuckle.

  ‘What do you want from us?’

  ‘What a sensible question; I can see we’ll get on famously.’ The man sucked noisily on the cigarette. ‘Here are the rules; quite simple really.’ The man inhaled again, smacking his lips. ‘The police will arrive in about twenty minutes. They will find you here alone with the body. Your fingerprints will be all over the murder weapon – that piece of bloody marble
over there on the floor. Needless to say, you will be the prime suspects. Clear so far?’

  ‘But we didn’t do anything,’ protested Jack.

  ‘You will have to explain that to the police – try to explain, that is. This is Warsaw, Mr Rogan, not Sydney. If you’re lucky, it will only take a few weeks to clear this up. If not, well ... our jails here are very – basic. I’m sure you know what I mean. And the wheels of justice turn slowly, very slowly,’ chirped the man, ‘and require a lot of oil ...’ He paused and lit another cigarette.

  ‘What do you want from us?’ demanded Jana hoarsely.

  ‘Such impatience. I see, of course, the time. Tick-tick-tick; twenty minutes can be so short. Back to the rules then,’ falsettoed the man, ‘all you have to do is answer a few questions – truthfully of course; lies are very costly – and you will leave before the police get here. Simple, isn’t it? What shall it be?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I like sensible women,’ continued the man, blowing smoke in Jana’s direction.

  ‘Let’s begin. What is your interest in Benjamin Krakowski?’

  ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’

  ‘Come now, this isn’t helpful. Benjamin Krakowski, the famous Auschwitz composer you discussed with poor Mr Finkelstein here last night? Does this jog your memory?’ the man asked sarcastically.

  The Auschwitz musician – of course! Thank you fat man, thought Jana, smiling. Unwittingly, the man had given her the very name she had been looking for.

  ‘You find this amusing?’ snapped the man.

  ‘No, only surprising.’

  Jana and Jack answered the questions fired at them by their well-informed interrogator. All had one thing in common: the Newman investigation. Jana began to bite her lower lip as the minutes ticked by. It was the only visible sign of her growing anxiety. Suddenly, the questions stopped. The man lit another cigarette and kept staring at her.

  ‘Well, are we finished? What about the police?’ Jana asked. The man began to laugh.

  ‘Police? We are the police, Inspector Gonski. A piece of friendly advice,’ continued the fat man, lowering his voice, ‘if I were you, I’d get on the first plane back to Australia and forget all about this. Next time you won’t be this lucky; understood?’ The man inhaled deeply and blew smoke into the room. ‘You are both free to go,’ he said after a while and left the room.

  ‘You see, I told you Vassili would get all the answers,’ Sorokin said, handing Horst another scotch. ‘He didn’t lay a hand on them – just as I promised. The man is a genius, you must admit,’ he continued, raising his glass. ‘One of my friends from the old days – KGB,’ explained Sorokin, laughing. ‘We don’t call him Little Beria for nothing.’

  Horst looked wistfully at Sorokin. He had witnessed the entire interrogation from his vantage point behind the fat man in the corridor. It had been far too contrived and theatrical for his liking. Had the policewoman and the journalist been telling the truth? How could he be sure? They appeared to be completely unaware of the Newman-Farim connection and the Egyptian arms deal. However, the policewoman’s baffling presence at the auction still worried him. Her explanation that she was helping the Egyptians recover the stolen statue because it had been found by an Australian archaeologist seemed somehow fanciful and implausible.

  ‘Do you think she told the truth?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s a matter for you to decide,’ Sorokin replied. ‘But if you ask me, I think so. You saw the fear in her eyes. Fear never lies.’

  Horst wasn’t convinced.

  35

  Carrington was waiting for Jana at Heathrow airport.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he said, helping Jana with her luggage. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  ‘He flew to Zurich to meet the American attorney. Apparently there’s been some kind of breakthrough with the Swiss money trail. He’ll be back tonight.’

  ‘What happened in Warsaw?’

  ‘Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you – better have a stiff one too, you’ll need it.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘Warsaw was full of surprises.’

  ‘This guy stood there and questioned me about a Benjamin Krakowski,’ explained Jana, massaging her aching temples. ‘At first the name didn’t mean anything to me, but then it clicked. He wanted to know why I was interested in Krakowski – the Auschwitz musician Finkelstein was talking about the night before? I had no idea he was a famous composer.’

  ‘Krakowski – the name he couldn’t remember?’ Carrington interjected.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You mean to say Finkelstein was killed because you asked him about Auschwitz?’

  ‘No, it’s more complicated than that,’ Jana replied sadly. ‘The questions changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Suddenly it was all about you and me and the London auction. This guy wanted to know what we were doing there. He wanted to know about you. And then, listen to this ... he began to ask about the Newman investigation. He knew a hell of a lot about it. And he knew a great deal about Jack. The beating he received, his hospitalisation – it doesn’t make sense! A total stranger tries to frame us for murder and interrogates us in Warsaw about Newman? I don’t get it,’ Jana said. ‘Where’s the connection?’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Carrington said, ‘it actually fits better than you think.’

  ‘It does?’

  Carrington handed Jana a photograph. ‘This was taken by one of Haddad’s agents after the auction. Do you recognise anyone?’ The photo was a close-up of three men leaving the auction house.

  ‘Yes, this is Horst Newman,’ said Jana, pointing to the man in the middle.

  ‘And I can tell you who the other two are. The one on his right, the stocky one with the pockmarked face, is Colonel Sorokin, alias Gregori Molotov. He’s a Russian Mafiya boss who apparently supplied the weapons and explosives used in the Luxor massacre. He’s most probably also the one who arranged to have Finkelstein killed and had you interrogated. He operates mainly out of Warsaw and Odessa. Interpol has a dossier on him as thick as a telephone book: child pornography, arms, body parts, sex slaves; need I go on?’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Far from it. The other one, here, is Abdullah Farim,’ continued Carrington, pointing to the photograph, ‘another unsavoury character. He’s an Egyptian wheeler-dealer who’ll do anything for a buck. Allegedly, he purchased the arms for the terrorists who committed the atrocities.’

  ‘How on earth do you know all this?’

  ‘Haddad called. It looks like you weren’t the only one being questioned last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Farim made a big mistake. He returned to Cairo after the auction. He was arrested as soon as he set foot on Egyptian soil. Haddad interrogated him last night.’

  ‘But where does Newman fit into all this?’

  ‘It would appear he financed the arms deal, and the sale of the statue was somehow part of it. That’s why all three showed up at the auction.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Jana almost shouted.

  ‘That’s what Haddad was told. Look, the three of them are getting into the car – together. The photo doesn’t lie! Neither did Farim, I believe. Haddad’s methods are very effective.’

  ‘I need another drink,’ said Jana, suddenly feeling very tired, ‘and some sleep. This is all a little too much for me right now.’

  ‘Newman’s involvement is still rather baffling, I must admit. First the Newman investigation in Australia, then an arms deal financed by Newman involving Egyptian terrorists and the Russian Mafia, followed by a London auction of a stolen statue. Not any statue, but the same one we found three weeks ago at Saqqara.’ Carrington shook his head. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences like that; there has to be a link, a common thread. We just can’t see it.’

  ‘And now this Warsaw mess. A murder, a crazy interrogation, and a warning. They obviously want us to back off. What doe
s it all mean, Marcus? Where do we fit into all this?’

  ‘We should know more soon. Haddad expects to question Farim further, later today – if he’s well enough, that is,’ Carrington added quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The methods of the Egyptian police are effective, not gentle,’ he explained, shrugging his shoulders. Apparently they worked him over quite a bit ...’

  ‘How bad is he?’

  ‘He’s in the prison hospital.’

  Jana leant back in her chair and closed her eyes again. ‘All this violence,’ she said, ‘it goes on and on. It’s like a quagmire. Once you step in, you can’t get out. I’m caught, and sinking fast.’

  ‘What about this Jewish composer – Krakowski? Are you quite sure he’s Finkelstein’s Auschwitz musician?’

  ‘Why don’t we ask him? I looked him up on the internet. Quite a famous man by the way, with an impressive website. Best of all, he lives right here in London.’

  36

  ‘I know that most of you have mastered the technical challenges of this extraordinary instrument,’ Professor Krakowski told his master class. ‘I’ve heard many of you play and have little to teach you when it comes to technique. What I will try to do, however, is to show you how to reach that little bit further, but in a different direction.’ He held up his violin and walked to the front row. ‘Who would believe that a small wooden box like this, with four simple strings,’ he paused, pointing to the instrument with the bow in his right hand, ‘is capable of producing such sublime sound? Sound, which can be deliriously joyful or profoundly sad; sound, which can reach into the very soul of man. You know why it can do all these marvellous things?’ he asked. ‘Because it has help. Help from you, the musicians who play it. It’s quite simple really; it is you who give it life.’ The professor began to pace up and down – violin under arm – followed by the adoring gaze of his mesmerised pupils.