The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

‘Mr Newman is arriving tonight.’

  ‘He’s coming here, to Luxor?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Farim was beginning to enjoy himself again.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We’ll be taken to the Defender of the Faith in the morning,’ Farim announced casually.

  Haddad looked at him, dismayed. ‘How?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve been told to stay in a boarding house in the bazaar. Newman will be staying there too, the lucky chap. Someone will contact us in the morning. That’s all I know,’ Farim explained. ‘For now ...’ he added mischievously.

  ‘All right. In that case,’ Haddad said, stabbing a finger at Farim’s chest, ‘you’ll do exactly as I tell you. You hear?’

  Farim sat in an old wicker chair near the front door and scrutinised everyone entering the boarding house. It was already very hot and the old ceiling fan squeaking lazily overhead did little to cool the fetid air. He tried to look relaxed, but found it difficult to control his unease and kept nervously wiping his face with a handkerchief. Horst sat opposite – glassy-eyed and still half asleep – fighting jetlag by sipping cups of strong, syrupy coffee. He had flown into Cairo from Buenos Aires the night before and had caught the first available flight to Luxor to meet Farim.

  Haddad sat, pretending to read the paper, in a dark corner next to two old men playing backgammon. He wasn’t taking any chances; the boarding house was surrounded by his agents and everyone approaching it was being watched. The narrow alley outside was teeming with morning shoppers on their way to the market. Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the doorway and a crippled beggar hobbled into the room. Clutching a dirty bowl, he approached Farim’s table.

  ‘Follow me,’ whispered the wretch, pointing his bowl at Farim. The beggar turned around and moved with surprising agility towards the reception desk.

  ‘Come,’ hissed Farim, pulling Horst to his feet. Haddad threw down the paper and was about to get up when one of the servants bumped into him from behind, spilling a pot of boiling coffee into his lap. A diversion, thought Haddad, crying out in pain as the steaming liquid soaked into his trousers. Damn!

  The beggar opened a concealed trapdoor and pointed to a stairway leading down into a tunnel. ‘Run that way, quickly! A boat is waiting by the river,’ he hissed and secured the door with a large iron bolt from the inside. ‘This should slow them down a bit,’ he added, before disappearing down another tunnel.

  50

  Horst felt disorientated and uncomfortable. He was beginning to have second thoughts about the visit. Sitting blindfolded in front of a stranger – an obviously dangerous one – wasn’t the ideal way to foster a business relationship. If it hadn’t been at his father’s insistence that he meet with the Defender of the Faith to arrange to buy the original Blanquefort papyrus, he wouldn’t have agreed to come.

  ‘Please forgive the blindfold my friends. It’s an unpleasant but necessary precaution, as much for your protection as for mine. I’m sure you understand,’ Sheikh Omar apologised, stroking his beard. ‘In the unlikely event that you are ever questioned about my whereabouts – however persuasively – you will be able to say with conviction that you don’t know where I am.’ It was an ominous statement, not a welcome.

  ‘But now that we’re here, why the blindfolds?’ Farim asked timidly.

  ‘Because I wish it so,’ came the curt reply. It was purely a precaution by Sheikh Omar to keep his injury a secret. A disability – however temporary – and leadership, didn’t sit well together. He said nothing more.

  ‘Our enemies are expecting me at Deir el-Medina,’ Sheikh Omar observed casually. ‘Chief Inspector Haddad will be very disappointed, don’t you think?’ he continued, addressing Farim. ‘I’m told you got to know him rather well in prison after your return from London ...’ Sheikh Omar was deliberately telling Farim that his extensive network of spies was keeping him well informed. Large beads of perspiration began to form on Farim’s forehead and his mouth felt suddenly quite dry.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your remarkable powers of persuasion,’ continued Sheikh Omar. ‘How did you manage to convince the Chief Inspector to let you go, I asked myself?’ An awkward silence followed. Farim realised that his life may depend on the answer to that question.

  ‘I promised him information about you, in return for my freedom,’ he replied at last, deciding to gamble. ‘I thought that by suggesting such an arrangement I could actually be of assistance to you.’

  ‘Pray, tell me – how?’

  ‘Needless to say, I had no intention of providing the Chief Inspector with accurate intelligence,’ Farim assured the Defender of the Faith, ‘just information that had the ring of truth, but was in fact quite false.’ It was an ingenious reply, meshing truth and fiction into a believable story. Sheikh Omar looked at Farim with grudging respect.

  ‘I’m indebted to you. Your loyalty shall be rewarded – at the appropriate time. But enough of that for now. Please, let’s eat. Ah, I can see we’ll have to adjust the blindfolds for you,’ added Sheikh Omar, laughing. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mr Newman has come a long way to meet you, just as you requested,’ began Farim after they had finished the customary meal. ‘I have explained your proposal to him and you will be pleased to hear that he has agreed to your terms, subject only to viewing the ...’ Farim paused briefly, searching for the right word, ‘... merchandise.’

  ‘And information about the location of the Blanquefort find,’ Horst interjected curtly. He was becoming increasingly annoyed by the charade. Having to negotiate blindfolded with the man he came to see, was clearly absurd. Sheikh Omar could read Horst’s body language like a book. He had his visitor exactly where he wanted him to be; uncomfortable, unsure, and completely within his power.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a slight complication,’ Sheikh Omar explained calmly, ‘brought about entirely by unexpected circumstances beyond my control.’ Farim’s stomach began to churn; he didn’t like where this was heading.

  ‘What complication?’ demanded Horst impatiently. Farim winced. Such directness was considered bad manners, bordering on rudeness.

  ‘My enemies have surrounded the area where the merchandise, as you put it, is hidden. Apparently, they are expecting me to come and collect it. It’s a trap of course. There’s obviously a traitor in our ranks we’ll have to silence. Unfortunately therefore, I cannot show you the merchandise at the moment.’

  ‘In that case, I cannot go ahead with the deal,’ Horst snapped and began to get up.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Newman, I’m not finished yet.’

  ‘But I am. There’s nothing more to say. I want to leave – now!’ This time, Horst had gone too far. Farim reached across to Horst, trying in vain to silence him.

  ‘Such impatience,’ muttered Sheikh Omar in Arabic. ‘That will not be possible I’m afraid,’ he continued in English. ‘You will have to enjoy my hospitality a little bit longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Horst, attempting to pull off the blindfold. At a signal from Sheikh Omar one of the guards standing behind Horst hit him in the back with a rifle butt. Horst cried out in pain and fell forward, gasping for air.

  ‘As I was saying, that will not be possible just now,’ Sheikh Omar repeated, as if nothing had happened. ‘The length of your stay will depend on how cooperative you are, and the generosity of your family.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ croaked Horst, rubbing his aching back.

  ‘War is brutal, Mr Newman,’ Sheikh Omar explained, ‘and whether you realise it or not, you are caught up in a war. As the merchandise I intended to trade with you is presently out of my reach, we’ll have to come to an interim arrangement, so to speak. I have responsibilities that cannot wait.’

  ‘What arrangement did you have in mind?’ interrupted Farim, sniffing a new opportunity to make some money.

  ‘A sensible question at last,’ said Sheikh Omar. Farim was so predictable. ‘I’ll tell you, but first let’s have some more coffee.�
�

  Farim was returned to Luxor by his minders just before sunset. As he began to walk towards the boarding house, he was certain he was being watched. Instead of going inside, he sat down on a stone step and began to contemplate his new role as a double agent. He knew it was only a matter of time before Haddad made contact.

  51

  Newman was a light sleeper. He could hear someone knocking on his bedroom door and sat up in bed, instantly awake.

  ‘There’s a phone call for you, Sir Eric,’ said his housekeeper, turning on the light. ‘From Egypt. It appears urgent ...’

  Newman picked up the phone on his bedside table. ‘I apologise for intruding at this hour,’ said a silky voice, speaking quite slowly, ‘but ...’ The voice faded away in mid-sentence.

  ‘I cannot hear you,’ shouted Newman, shaking the receiver in frustration. ‘Are you there? Speak up!’

  ‘The reception in the desert is always unpredictable – satellite phones, I’m afraid,’ came the calm reply. ‘As I was saying, the matter is of importance – especially to you.’

  ‘Who is this?’ Newman demanded abruptly.

  ‘I am the Defender of the Faith ...’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Your son is my guest ...’

  ‘I know that,’ Newman snapped. ‘I’ve already agreed to pay the three million you asked – as an advance,’ Newman added sarcastically, ‘and the five hundred thousand dollars to your Mr Farim. It will reach the designated bank accounts in the morning.’

  ‘Farim has demanded half a million dollars for himself? I see – it is as I suspected. Please cancel the payment to him. He has no further use for the money.’ The traitor has been found, thought Sheikh Omar. The snake will be crushed next time it slithers into my cave.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Newman, trying to make sense of the confusing conversation.

  ‘I’m intrigued by your interest in Armand de Blanquefort,’ Sheikh Omar continued, undeterred. ‘Your son appears to know very little about the subject – he’s obviously only the messenger ...’

  ‘You approached me with an old manuscript and I agreed to buy it, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘You’ve agreed to pay three million American dollars for a seven hundred year old papyrus and a promise – a rather vague one, I would suggest – of more antiquities to come some time in the future – why?’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘What might that be?’ asked the silky voice.

  ‘My son’s release,’ Newman snapped angrily. ‘I thought that was obvious; Farim made that quite clear ... this is a ransom demand, correct?’

  ‘But you only agreed to do business with us because we offered you the manuscript – right?’ Sheikh Omar replied, ignoring the remark. ‘And we only approached you, because you were looking for information about the Templars in Egypt – Armand de Blanquefort, to be precise,’ he added. Newman didn’t reply. Instead, he was trying to figure out where this was heading.

  ‘You don’t disagree, that’s good. I can therefore only assume that you are fully aware of the manuscript’s significance,’ Sheikh Omar stated calmly. ‘You have nothing to say? I see. There’s a further condition ...’

  ‘What condition?’ Newman demanded angrily.

  ‘You will have to help me find something ...’

  ‘You speak in riddles – what?’

  ‘Something we are both looking for ...’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’

  Sheikh Omar allowed himself a little chuckle. ‘Then let me assist you: Armand de Blanquefort sent one of his most trusted knights back to his native France in October 1305, didn’t he? From right here – somewhere in Egypt – with a mission. He gave him something very precious to take back home, something he had to guard with his honour and his life and deliver to the Grand Master of the Templars personally. I’m sure you know what it was. Would you care to tell me?’

  Trying to calm himself, Newman reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. Was this enigmatic character testing him, or simply angling for information – which was it? With Horst’s life in the stranger’s hands, he had to be careful. Yet, to disclose too much could be fatal. He was frantically searching for the right way to answer.

  ‘The consummation of hearts’ desire,’ Newman replied at last, convinced that if the mysterious stranger was as well informed as he appeared to be, he would understand; if not, he had given nothing away.

  ‘Twelfth century German poetry – Parzival; Wolfram von Eschenbach – an ingenious reply,’ Sheikh Omar said after a while. ‘I can see we understand each other. We are obviously both searching for the same ... prize.’ Newman didn’t respond. ‘And you must think the Templar manuscript will help you find it – how?’

  ‘The manuscript alone isn’t enough,’ Newman replied curtly, trying to control his rising anger. He didn’t like the rules of this game. ‘This is not getting us anywhere!’

  ‘But it is; you are quite mistaken,’ Sheikh Omar contradicted him calmly. ‘Such impatience! The very fact that you are seeking information about Armand de Blanquefort – here in Egypt – tells me that his trusty knight must have completed his mission and made it safely back to France – and left a trail ... and a few unanswered questions.’

  Newman was momentarily taken aback by the compelling clarity of the argument. ‘For a man of the desert, you appear to know a lot about this subject,’ he said, playing for time.

  ‘For an Australian banker trying to buy an obscure old manuscript for such an exorbitant amount, you must know a lot more,’ came the quick retort. ‘In fact,’ Sheikh Omar continued, ‘not only do you obviously know what Armand de Blanquefort sent back to France with his knight, but I believe you also know what was written in the original dispatch that accompanied it. “One is on its way back to France, with a dispatch recording the hiding place of the other”,’ quoted Sheikh Omar. ‘Remember?’

  Nothing more was said. All Newman could hear was the desert wind howling on the other end of the line. ‘No, I don’t!’ he said at last.

  ‘I find that difficult to believe ...’

  ‘Don’t insult me! You have my son’s life in your hands; his life is more precious to me than all of this. I’ve agreed to your terms, I cannot do any more. Please honour your side of the bargain.’

  Sheikh Omar didn’t reply. Once again, all Newman could hear was the desert wind in the background. ‘In fact, I’m trying to secure the Blanquefort papyrus for one reason alone ...’ explained Newman, breaking the nerve-racking silence.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘I am looking for more information,’ Newman admitted at last.

  ‘What information?’

  ‘We need to know where it was found!’

  ‘Who is we?’

  Newman bit his lip, instantly regretting the careless slip of the tongue. ‘The Vatican ...’ he replied, coming clean.

  Sheikh Omar began to chuckle. ‘You are a lucky man, Mr Newman,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Because I believe you. The Church in Rome has tried for centuries to get its bloody hands on the consummation of hearts’ desire – and failed. It has tried in vain to find the dispatch Armand de Blanquefort sent to the Grand Master from Egypt in 1305. How disappointing. I thought you knew more.’

  ‘What about the manuscript? The original; we agreed! And the information about ...’

  ‘Where it was found?’ Sheikh Omar interrupted. ‘That’s the key to all this, isn’t it?’ He began to laugh.

  ‘Without that information the document is useless,’ Newman snapped angrily, repeating the words of the black priest.

  ‘And without the information contained in the dispatch Fra. Bernard delivered to the Grand Master, pinpointing the find will not lead you to the consummation of hearts’ desire,’ came the curt reply. ‘You need both!’

  ‘Do not play games with me. What do you want?’ Newman almost shrieked,
finally venting his pent up frustration.

  ‘I’m the Defender of the Faith,’ came the calm reply, ‘and your son is my guest. The original manuscript is no longer for sale. And as for where it was found ... Egypt is such a vast country, isn’t it? Pity that! Your son will be released as soon as the money has been paid.’

  Once again, all Newman could hear was the desert wind. Then the line went dead.

  ‘What happened?’ Heinrich demanded anxiously, bursting into his father’s study. ‘You said it was urgent.’ Barefoot and wearing striped pyjamas under his track suit, he looked sleepy and confused. It was three in the morning.

  ‘We have an emergency; Horst has been ... detained,’ Newman replied, coming straight to the point. Heinrich just looked at his father dumbfounded, thinking he hadn’t heard correctly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Our Mr Farim called from Egypt giving me the details – and the demands,’ continued Newman calmly.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Apparently, Horst is being held captive somewhere in the desert near Luxor by the leader of this terrorist group – the Islamic Brotherhood of something or other he went to meet, and Farim is acting as the go-between.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Three million dollars into a Swiss bank account as an advance, I think he called it. That’s all.’

  ‘I knew it! As if the auction disaster wasn’t enough, the bloody fool had to go back for more. This is madness!’ Heinrich became quite agitated and almost shouted. Newman didn’t tell his son that he’d specifically instructed Horst to meet the Defender of the Faith personally to arrange the purchase of the original manuscript. Nor did he tell him about his extraordinary early morning telephone conversation.

  ‘Please, calm yourself; getting upset isn’t going to help.’

  ‘What are you going to do – pay?’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’ snapped Newman.