‘I said seven, not eight. The dinner’s almost ruined,’ Jack said, hurrying back into the kitchen. ‘But ... come in.’ Jana noticed he was still limping quite a bit.
‘Smells good.’
Jack grinned. ‘It should,’ he said, ‘I used my best brandy. Now, get two plates, please. First we eat, then we talk.’
‘I like a man who knows his priorities. No time for, “How are you Jana? It’s good to see you” – no Sir, not for this fella,’ she joked. ‘“Get the plates, you’re late kid,” that’s more his style. Must be a shy country boy.’
‘Voila! Lobster Cardinale,’ announced Jack with a flourish, placing a steaming platter with two large red lobsters cut in half – complete with legs and claws – in the middle of the table. ‘Fresh from Tasmania.’ He looked pleased with himself and missed Jana’s remark completely. ‘Tuck in!’
Jana was impressed; lobster was her favourite and she realised Jack had gone to a lot of trouble to get it. ‘Not bad for a guy who only flew in this morning. How on earth did you manage all this?’ Jana asked, savouring the delicious meat of the tail.
‘Delivered by taxi straight from the fish market. I have connections, you know,’ bragged Jack, munching happily.
‘Your article about Dr Erich Neumueller, alias Sir Eric Newman, Nazi scientist and secret post-war-Government-import-at-taxpayers’-expense, certainly put a hungry cat among scared pigeons in Canberra, I can tell you. The feathers are still flying. I particularly liked Sir Eric as “the dud match in Operation Matchbox” – brilliant!’
‘It was all thanks to you. You gave me the lead – ESTEA, remember?’
‘And you found Anton Hoffmeister. Without him, we wouldn’t have been able to charge Newman. Hoffmeister was the missing link,’ Jana added.
‘We make a good team,’ said Jack, raising his glass.
‘Speaking of charging Newman, you may not have seen the Sydney papers. As soon as the news broke it was all over the front page. His home has been virtually under siege since. TV crews are camped in the park next door. Newman must be furious.’
‘He’s suing the paper about my last article, that’s why I had to come back now. The lawyers want to talk to me urgently,’ said Jack. ‘They mentioned settlement negotiations; no one wants to go to court.’
‘He’s obviously fighting back, but that’s hardly surprising. Is that a problem for you?’
‘Not really. Quite the opposite. The paper wants more and I’ve got something sensational. That’s what I want to talk to you about. We have a deal, remember?’
‘You’re making me curious,’ replied Jana, squeezing Jack’s arm. ‘So, we’re ignoring the Warsaw warning then, are we?’
‘You bet; stuff the warning!’
‘Just watch your back,’ Jana warned, turning serious. ‘I mean it. These guys have long arms and sticky fingers ... with claws.’
‘So what?’ Jack shrugged. ‘I’m not walking away from the biggest story I’ve come across in years just because a fat Polish policeman tries to scare me off. Right now, the Americans are putting a lot of pressure on the Swiss about a hoard of Nazi gold in one of their banks, and I want to be there when the story breaks.’
‘What about the Holocaust victims’ money?’ interjected Jana.
‘Yes, that too. I contacted Gruber in Vienna. I don’t think he likes me – three days he took, just to get permission to have a peek at the gold bars found in the grave.’ Jack rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t take it personally. They have a department for everything and a different stamp for every document, all of it in triplicate.’
‘Tell me about it. Sam Greenberg came with me; we left Buenos Aires together. He was certain those bars from the grave looked just like the gold in the bank in Zurich. You know, same size, weight, same Reichsbank markings, serial numbers, colour and so on. The Swiss have agreed to make one available for tests, actually. Apparently, dental gold has a slightly different composition. If the bars match ... well, you can imagine. There’ll be a hullabaloo and Newman will certainly be implicated.’
‘Because of the gold found in the grave?’ Jana asked. ‘If he’s convicted ... well ...’
‘No, not only because of that; there’s more,’ Jack explained. He pushed the plunger down and began to pour the coffee. ‘Listen to this: The Swiss bank under the spotlight with the gold and the bank with the Nazi trail leading to Buenos Aires and Hoffmeister are one and the same.’
‘That’s extraordinary, Jack! It all seems to fit. I told you once before, you should have been a detective.’
‘No, I’m just a humble newshound – sniff sniff – with a good nose, that’s all. A story like this comes along once in a lifetime,’ Jack said, grinning, ‘and I intend to make the best of it.’
‘You deserve it, congratulations.’ Jana looked at Jack. ‘When are you going back to Europe?’ she asked.
‘As soon as I’m finished with the lawyers. In two or three days, I expect. But I’ll be back, covering the trial of course.’
‘Great dinner, Jack. Thanks. Can I have another port?’ Jana asked, sinking deeper into the cane chair. It was the first time she had felt totally relaxed in weeks.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you still have that checked shirt?’
‘Why?’ Jack frowned, feigning ignorance. ‘I didn’t think you liked my wardrobe.’
‘Because I may need it later,’ she purred. Jana kicked off her shoes and began to explore the front of Jack’s shorts with the tips of her toes.
‘That shirt – eh? I don’t think it’s been ironed.’
‘I can live with that.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jana nodded. ‘But first close your eyes. No cheating, you hear?’
‘Okay.’
Jack hurried into the kitchen and returned holding a cupcake with one candle in the middle. ‘Now, open your eyes. Many happy returns!’
‘Oh, Jack; how sweet of you. You remembered!’ Jana stood up and gave Jack a hug. The special lobster dinner suddenly made a lot more sense.
‘I remembered the date, but not the number ...’ Jack lied. ‘That’s why you only get one candle.’
‘I bet you say that to all the chicks.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Only the old ones.’
‘Bastard!’ Jana burst out laughing. ‘Well, forty-three candles on a cupcake wouldn’t have worked anyway,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Forty-three – eh? I’m not that far behind you. Now, blow out the candle and make a wish, but be careful,’ Jack warned.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because wishes can come true – remember?’
47
Newman stared at the email from Hoffmeister. Damn you, Anton! he thought. Some people crumble under pressure, but Newman always did his best thinking with his back against the wall. He knew that his most important ally was to learn how to control fear, harness its energy and turn it into positive action. The war had taught him all that.
‘You’re early,’ Newman said. Heinrich closed the study door and walked across to his father’s desk.
‘I wanted to talk to you before Horst gets here,’ replied Heinrich.
Newman smiled; his son was so predictable. ‘We’ll call off the float. You’ll announce it tomorrow,’ Newman said calmly.
‘But we can’t! Not at this crucial stage,’ protested Heinrich, agitated.
‘We must. We have no choice, do you understand? We have to take the initiative. We make the decision before the market makes it for us. It’s called damage control. We’ll engage a public relations firm to handle the media.’
Heinrich shrugged. He knew it was pointless to argue with his father. ‘What about Horst?’ he asked. ‘Surely you will not allow him to go through with this latest Farim caper? He’s just trying to cover his losses – it’s obvious.’ Horst had finally come clean about the auction debacle. Surprisingly, he didn’t blame Farim for the disaster. On the contrary, he spoke in glowing terms about a new deal proposed by his ‘
good friend’.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Newman said.
‘You can’t be serious! First, he’s taken in by this Arab trickster and loses a fortune, and now he wants to go back for more and you’ll let him? This is madness!’
‘We took a risk and things have gone a little sour. So what? That’s no reason to give up,’ snapped Newman.
‘I don’t think I need to remind you ... you’re facing a criminal trial, a war crimes trial,’ Heinrich said. ‘The press is hounding us, we’re about to call off the float and Horst is going to Egypt to play with mummies? He should be right here doing something useful!’
‘Please calm down. He’s doing something useful; he’s trying to make some money.’ Heinrich couldn’t remember ever having seen his father so agitated before. He was about to suggest something else when Horst walked into the room.
Horst had prepared himself for a confrontation. Instead, his father greeted him as if nothing had happened. His brother was uncharacteristically subdued. Horst knew immediately that something was wrong. He began to explain what had happened at the auction, and how he’d wanted to make up the losses through another deal involving Farim.
‘We can discuss all that later,’ said Newman, interrupting Horst impatiently, ‘there are more important things right now. I know you have a lot to do, Heinrich,’ said Newman, returning to his desk. Heinrich took this as a dismissal and stood up to go. Horst did the same.
‘Not you, sit down! I want to talk to you,’ said Newman, looking sternly at his son.
Here it comes, thought Horst, steeling himself for the expected tirade. I knew it was all too easy. At least Heinrich won’t be here to gloat.
‘Good luck,’ Heinrich hissed sarcastically on his way out. ‘You’ll need it.’
‘Promise me, what I am about to tell you will remain strictly between us,’ said Newman, turning to Horst. ‘Not a word to anyone, not even your brother, do you understand?’
‘I promise,’ said Horst gravely, barely able to contain his excitement.
‘Come over here and read this,’ said Newman, pointing to the computer screen. ‘It’s from Anton in Argentina.’
Horst read the email. ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you what it means. Someone has found Anton and has persuaded him to testify against me. I don’t have to remind you that he knows a great deal about our financial affairs. He also knows a great deal about the past ...’ Newman mumbled to himself. ‘As you can see, he wants to make a deal. He’s in financial trouble as usual and desperately needs cash. He wants me to come to Buenos Aires to discuss it with him. I cannot go of course and Heinrich is needed here. That leaves you.’
‘What about Voss? Couldn’t he arrange something?’
‘Definitely not! We keep the lawyers out of this, do you understand? This is strictly between us.’ Horst nodded. ‘Now, listen carefully: I will cover your debts – this time – but you’ll do something for me in return.’
48
Sheikh Omar hunched low in the saddle and stroked the neck of his camel. ‘Allah be praised,’ he muttered to himself, ‘the storm is easing.’ A sandstorm had raged across the Sinai for hours, almost blotting out the relentless sun baking the desert floor.
The Defender of the Faith had realised quickly that it was impossible to wage Jihad from exile. If the Brotherhood was to survive, he had to leave the safety of Mecca behind and return to Egypt. The anonymous pilgrim had to turn into a fierce leader again and show himself to his followers. He also realised that Jihad couldn’t function without money – lots of money. The wheels of cooperation and silence had to be oiled with cash; more arms had to be purchased and alliances forged.
Sheikh Omar had arranged to meet Farim in Luxor to discuss the raising of funds – once again through the Australian banker with the baffling interest in Armand de Blanquefort. Why was this wealthy banker interested in an obscure warrior-monk who perished in Egypt seven hundred years ago? Is this experienced businessman offering huge sums of money for an apparently insignificant papyrus because he knows? There was only one way to find out, Sheikh Omar told himself. He had to come face-to-face with the Australian. He would watch his eyes; the truth was always there.
Sheikh Omar squinted through his scarf and looked up. The cliffs; at last, he thought, rubbing his burning eyes. The cliffs marked the entrance to a dry wadi which offered a shorter, if more dangerous, route to the Nile. The caravans would always take the longer, safer way. He turned around and waved at his two young bodyguards following behind.
‘We’ll go that way,’ he announced, pointing to a narrow gorge. ‘Be careful, the path is treacherous. This wadi belongs to scorpions, vultures and snakes. Make sure you stay directly behind me. Allah be with you.’
Sheikh Omar knew, to stay safe, he had to be unpredictable. He had stayed away from caravans and the ancient pilgrim trails. His spies had warned him that all caravans returning from Mecca were being watched. Informers were everywhere, even among the devout. The danger of travelling alone, without the protection of a caravan, was the price of a safe return to Egypt. The way through the wadi followed a long forgotten trade route to the ancient gold mines of the pharaohs. He remembered travelling this route as a boy with his grandfather – a Bedouin – who knew this part of the desert like no other. The path snaking down into the wadi was dangerous and rarely used in recent times.
Sheikh Omar held up his hand. ‘Stop,’ he shouted and pulled up his camel. The path was blocked by a large boulder. The only way around it appeared to be across an exposed rock ledge with a sheer drop of several hundred metres into the gorge on one side, and a steep wall of rock rising up on the other. Sheikh Omar’s camel refused to step onto the ledge and pressed itself against the rock.
The Defender of the Faith knew how to handle recalcitrant camels. He calmed the frightened animal by whispering soothing passages from the Koran into its ear, and then coaxed it forward – a step at a time.
Suddenly, a king cobra slid out of a crack in the rock directly in front of the camel. The terrified animal stopped in its tracks and began to walk backwards. When the cobra reared up, the camel panicked, lost its footing and began to slide over the edge. Moments before the beast plunged to its death, Sheikh Omar hurled himself backwards out of the saddle.
Dazed by the fall and numbed by pain, he didn’t notice the cobra slithering closer until it was almost touching his face. Trembling, he remembered a similar incident as a young boy in his grandfather’s tent.
‘Lie perfectly still,’ he heard his grandfather whisper. ‘Do not even blink.’ He held his breath and resisted the urge to straighten his injured leg. Instead, he stared motionless at the aroused reptile. The cobra swayed back and forth almost touching his sweating face with its probing tongue. Satisfied that there was no more danger, the snake retreated slowly.
The two boys had observed the terrifying incident from behind.
‘Come and help me,’ shouted Sheikh Omar, trying in vain to move his stiff leg. The boys jumped off their camels and hurried towards him, their faces aglow.
‘You’re alive, it’s a miracle,’ said one of the boys, holding up his hands. ‘Allah be praised.’
‘The snake spared you, it was the will of God,’ said the other.
‘At the end of this wadi is a large cave overlooking the Nile, carry me to it,’ moaned Sheikh Omar. ‘I often stayed there with my grandfather.’
Sheikh Omar, practical above all, realised that his injury had made a safe return to Luxor all but impossible. Instead of melting into the crowd, he would now attract unwelcome attention he couldn’t afford. He was searching for a way of turning the unexpected adversity into an advantage.
One good thing, he thought, the cave is quite close to Luxor, difficult to find and easy to defend. There are several escape routes and hiding places. In many ways, it’s a much safer location than the workmen’s tombs. The snake ... a sign? Perhaps it was meant to be ...
The boys
prepared a makeshift stretcher and, following Sheikh Omar’s directions, the leg was set and a makeshift splint applied.
‘You will be my eyes and ears,’ he said to the boys. ‘You are the chosen instruments given to me by God. If you faithfully obey my commands, great rewards will await you in Paradise,’ he added, pointing gravely towards heaven. ‘Now, carry me into the cave.’
49
‘What do you mean he’s not coming to Deir el-Medina?’ growled Haddad. He looked angrily at Farim sitting next to him in the felucca. They had arranged to meet on the boat to avoid being seen together, or worse still, being overheard. In the bazaar, even the walls had eyes and ears.
‘He’s changed his plans. That’s all I know,’ Farim replied haughtily. ‘He’s hiding somewhere in the desert.’
This was bad news. Haddad had carefully surrounded the whole of Deir el-Medina with a small army of sharpshooters. The entire area was under surveillance and could be sealed off at a moment’s notice. Agents had been placed in every coffee house and bazaar up and down the Nile. They had even infiltrated the local gangs living in the tombs. But now, it appeared the trap had been set in the wrong place. Haddad would have a lot of explaining to do.
‘Do you have any idea what this means? If you are playing games with me, you’re finished,’ hissed Haddad.
‘I have some good news as well,’ continued Farim, ignoring the threat. He paused for effect, but Haddad just stared at him without saying a word.
‘Remember the Australian financier, Mr Newman junior, who lost a small fortune when your lawyer friend burst into the auction?’
Haddad nodded, recalling Carrington’s remarkable performance.
‘The Defender of the Faith wants to meet him. I’ve been asked to arrange it.’
‘How will you do that?’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 21
