Habakkuk nodded. ‘Colonel Sorokin is well connected in Egypt.’
‘Speaking of Egypt, what about Sir Eric’s son? Isn’t he in jail there, awaiting trial?’
‘Yes, Sir Eric’s trying to negotiate his release. And, well, there was something else Sir Eric asked of me, Eminence. In fact, he’s asking for a favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘He wants to make a bequest to the Vatican Museum.’
Surprised, the Cardinal looked up. ‘How odd, did he say what it was?’
‘No, but he did say that it was something very precious and that you would recognise its significance. He was hoping you would become its champion; that’s all I know. Apparently his lawyers will contact you soon.’
‘Intriguing,’ said the Cardinal, shaking his head. ‘Incidentally, Brother Frumentius has been asking after you – repeatedly. He appears to be exceptionally well informed. You will have to deal with him ... he could become a problem. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Absolutely, Eminence,’ replied Habakkuk, taking a bow.
77
‘The ways of Allah – blessing be upon his name – are often difficult to fathom, Ms Gonski,’ Jana heard a voice address her in English, ‘but always full of wisdom and purpose.’ The silky voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Momentarily blinded by the light, as the pillowcase was pulled off her head, Jana squeezed her eyes closed and slowly opened them. She instantly recognised the bearded face looking at her.
‘We meet again,’ Sheikh Omar continued, ‘but regrettably you are still going the wrong way.’ The lantern hanging from the centre post cast intricate shadows against the canvas walls of the spacious tent. Fingers of sand reached across the carpets and pointed, accusingly, she thought, at her. Sheikh Omar sat on the floor. Leaning comfortably against a large, colourful cushion, he looked more like a desert prince than a terrorist at the top of the most wanted list. ‘Welcome to my humble home. Please sit.’ He clapped twice and a dark-skinned youth materialised carrying a large beaten copper platter piled high with fragrant fruit. The boy placed it on the carpet next to Jana. ‘Please eat; you are my guest.’ Sheikh Omar pointed to the fruit platter.
He speaks with an English accent, Jana thought. Educated at Oxford or Cambridge, I’d say.
‘Prisoner would be more accurate, don’t you think?’ she replied curtly, slowly moving her aching limbs. The boat trip had been uncomfortable enough but the wild camel ride into the desert left her stiff and exhausted. Anger had replaced fear.
‘I prefer guest,’ Sheikh Omar replied calmly. Western women were so ill mannered, he thought, their men were not to be envied. Jana sensed his irritation; smiling wanly, she reached for an orange. She looked up at him and began to peel it.
Clever woman, thought Sheikh Omar, noticing the change in her demeanour.
‘If you treat your guests like this,’ Jana said, holding up a corner of the dirty blanket draped around her, ‘then I must pity your enemies.’
‘Our paths cross again,’ continued Sheikh Omar, ignoring the remark. He washed his hands in a small silver basin and dried them with a linen cloth handed to him by the boy.
He has beautiful hands, Jana thought, and manicured nails.
‘Why am I here? What do you want from me?’ she demanded. Sheikh Omar winced. He wasn’t accustomed to being questioned like this – especially not by a woman, and certainly not in his own tent.
‘Why are you here? That’s a good question. Why have you come back to Egypt, Ms Gonski? Please tell me.’ Jana didn’t reply.
‘I see. Let me answer for you: you came to assist my enemies – you were looking for me among the dead martyrs at the airport, hoping to identify me – isn’t that so?’ Sheikh Omar said frostily. ‘As you can see, I’m still very much alive – disappointed?’ Jana began to eat her orange in silence. ‘You have nothing to say?’
Jana swallowed. ‘You killed innocent people,’ she snapped. ‘Friends of mine died that day ...’
‘That is regrettable – war is brutal.’
‘Yes. Yes it is. And brutal is something you know about.’
‘But the man with you – Mr Carrington, I believe; he will arrive tomorrow from Australia?’ Sheikh Omar continued, ignoring her question. ‘I wonder why he’s coming to Egypt – do you know?’
‘I’m sure your spies will be able to tell you, but you still haven’t told me why you brought me here.’
Sheikh Omar chuckled. ‘You will help me send a message to my enemies – a very memorable one, I hope; impossible to ignore and hard to forget ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Such impatience. You will find out soon enough,’ Sheikh Omar replied. ‘But for now ...’ Loud shouting coming from outside interrupted him. A man burst into the tent, tore down the lantern and extinguished the candle. The shouting stopped and Jana could hear engine noise – coming closer. A helicopter, she thought, a search party?
‘But for now,’ Sheikh Omar continued in the darkness, ‘I’m afraid I will have to send you on another little journey.’
78
Brother Frumentius stood behind the column, watching. Once Habakkuk had walked past, he stepped out of the shadows. ‘Are you avoiding me?’ he whispered, linking arms with Habakkuk. ‘Keep walking, we’re being watched.’
‘No, I’ve only just now returned from Sydney. I had to speak to the Cardinal first, and ...’
‘I know; angels and demons ...’
Habakkuk paled and shook his head. ‘There, you’ve done it again; in the Sistine Chapel ... a few minutes ago. How?’
‘There are no secrets in this place, you know that.’
‘Perhaps not, but ...’
‘Did you speak to the Cardinal about Diderot? The archives?’
‘He won’t give his permission.’
‘Aah, perhaps it no longer matters.’
‘Oh?’
‘Come on, we know you’re getting close.’
‘You may be right.’
‘You know the Ark and the tablets ... belong together,’ Frumentius reminded Habakkuk. ‘I know you do. The tablets must be returned!’
‘I don’t agree. We’ve been down this path before; it’s no use.’
Frumentius looked at Habakkuk. ‘Can you at least tell me what you’ve found out? You promised. We know about the Krakowski connection and the new Templar papyrus. We know about the Defender of the Faith ... angels and demons ...’
‘Well then ...’ Habakkuk shrugged. Unnerved by Frumentius’ obvious network of spies, he was stalling to work out how to deal with this new threat. He glanced at the elderly man – Frumentius was not only well connected in Rome, but a master of intrigue, even by Vatican standards. Habakkuk knew how dangerous that could be.
‘All right. Yes, I believe we are very close.’
‘Egypt is the key?’
‘Yes. Armand de Blanquefort and his knights; it’s quite complicated.’
‘Try me.’
‘No, not here!’ Habakkuk looked around. Being seen with Frumentius like this could turn into a problem. ‘Why don’t you come with me to Egypt and see for yourself? I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Are you serious?’ Frumentius said, surprised.
‘Yes. I promised, remember?’ replied Habakkuk, a smile spreading. It was safer to have Frumentius by his side, he thought, than to have his obviously well informed agents poke around in Egypt – or worse still – interfere at this critical time. ‘You must deal with Frumentius,’ he heard the Cardinal say.
He would do just that. This way, he could keep an eye on Frumentius and bide his time. He was certain the Cardinal would approve.
79
The tiny flame flickered restlessly in the terracotta oil lamp left behind by the guards; crazy shadows danced on the stone walls of the chamber like dragon tongues. At first, Jana couldn’t see beyond the bright halo surrounding the flame. When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, strange objects appeared to float towards her o
ut of the shadows.
To her left, a pair of large statues carved from black granite guarded the entrance to the tomb. One had the slim, shapely body of a woman and the head of a lioness; the other, the head of a hawk and the body of a man. A wooden sarcophagus, its lid half open, was wedged against the wall behind the statues. Jana didn’t have the courage to see if the mummy was still inside. Crouching on the floor on her right, a jackal-headed creature was protecting four translucent alabaster Canopic jars. In each were the organs of another deceased, placed near the mummified bodies in the hope of being reunited in the afterlife.
Precious loot from countless graves, thought Jana, looking in awe at the burial treasures surrounding her. No doubt the work of callous tomb-robbers, oblivious to the dreams of the dead. When she lifted the lamp higher, Jana noticed fresco-like paintings on the walls. They were huge but one in particular caught her eye: an ibis-headed god, seated on a throne, an ankh in his left hand, a sceptre in his right.
Thoth, thought Jana, remembering Carrington’s lecture. Oh Marcus! What am I doing here?
Jana’s hand began to shake, making the flame splutter and then go out. The god receded into the darkness. Fear was no stranger to Jana, yet it took all of her willpower and training to resist screaming. All sense of time disappeared.
When darkness is added to silence, even the faintest sound can appear deafening. Jana heard a scraping noise in the distance. A shaft of light crept slowly down the stairs and something very cold appeared to kiss Jana on the back of the neck. ‘It’s just a draft,’ she reassured herself, watching the light. Suddenly, a key turned reluctantly in a lock, a chain fell to the stone floor and the gate squeaked open.
‘Ah, there you are. I see, your lamp’s gone out,’ said a familiar voice, coming closer. Shielding her face with her hand, Jana lifted her head. Sheikh Omar, flanked by two bodyguards with machine guns, stood in front of her; an executioner sizing up his next victim.
‘It’s you again,’ Jana said, trying to sound confident. ‘Your hospitality leaves much to be desired.’
The woman has courage, thought Sheikh Omar, looking down at the creature at his feet. ‘How do you like our little treasury? Impressive, wouldn’t you say? You are one of the few allowed to see it.’ Cowering on the floor, Jana felt small and vulnerable. ‘Do you know why?’ Jana shook her head. ‘Because you are part of it,’ Sheikh Omar told her, laughing. ‘I may let you live,’ she heard him say, ‘but only if you do exactly as I tell you. Get up.’ Jana stood up. ‘Now, take off the chador.’ Jana didn’t understand. ‘The robe,’ repeated Sheikh Omar impatiently, ‘take it off!’
80
The curfew in force meant that security in Luxor was tight. The army was everywhere and Carrington was taken by jeep to the temporary command centre next to the airport.
At first, he didn’t recognise Haddad, standing in front of a whiteboard in the crowded, smoke-filled room. The chief inspector appeared to have aged a decade. His thinning hair was long, unkempt and plastered into place with shiny pomade. His crumpled shirt – unbuttoned at the top – looked like it had been slept in for a week, with a limp tie, dangling annoyingly from a sagging knot half way down his chest. But most disturbing of all, was the look in his eyes: haunted, feverish, desperate. Just like the mood in the room.
Haddad concluded his briefing and walked back to his desk as the officers filed out of the room. Carrington took off his hat and stared at the whiteboard. Several large photos, surrounded by arrows and Arabic writing, were pinned to the middle of the board.
One in particular caught his eye. The image, fuzzy and quite blurred, was of a woman kneeling in front of two men dressed in battle fatigues, their faces hidden behind hound’s-tooth patterned scarfs. The men were pointing their machine guns to her head, like game hunters with one foot on their trophy.
The woman didn’t look at the camera. Trying in vain to cover her naked breasts with her hands, she kept staring at the floor. Fear began to claw at Carrington’s insides.
Haddad looked up from his desk. Recognising his friend, he raised his arms. Their eyes met; the look in Haddad’s said it all.
‘Jana?’ Carrington asked hoarsely. Haddad didn’t reply. Instead, he got up awkwardly, walked across to his friend and embraced him without saying anything.
‘When?’
‘Last night, while you were in the air.’
‘How?’
‘It shames me to have to say this; it was an inside job. One of our men let the fanatics into the building through a side entrance in the cellar. Several guards were killed – decapitated.’ Haddad pointed to one of the photos pinned to the board; headless corpses in pools of blood. ‘I insisted she stay at the police station to guarantee her safety. I failed Marcus, I am deeply sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Carrington regained his composure and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder.
‘It’s very generous of you to say that, but we both know it is. She was my responsibility. I asked for her help, she trusted me, and I failed. That’s all there’s to it.’
‘Self-recriminations will not get her back. But we will – you and I, together; I know it,’ Carrington said.
‘I would gladly trade my life for hers,’ he said, grateful.
‘I know you would.’ Carrington walked over to the whiteboard. ‘How did you get this?’ he asked, changing the subject. He pointed to the large photo pinned to the board.
‘It was sent to Al Jazeera an hour ago through the internet.’
‘Any demands?’
‘Unfortunately, no. There was only one line of text: “We have the shameless woman who desecrated our glorious dead”.’
‘What do you make of that?’
‘She was looking at all the bodies after the shooting; she was trying to identify the elusive Defender of the Faith who wasn’t there. I’m sure they’re referring to that.’
‘What do you think they’ll do with her?’
‘Well, one good thing, I suppose, is the fact that she’s still alive. If they wanted to kill her, they would have done so by now. I expect some kind of demand – soon. It fits the pattern.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Carrington said, taking a closer look at the photo. ‘Have you analysed this? Can you get a clearer image?’
‘Not yet. It’s with Forensics in Cairo. They are working on it.’
‘Look, there’s something in the background – here.’ Carrington pointed to a spot on the wall behind the two gunmen.
‘Yes, I can see it,’ Haddad agreed, putting on his glasses. ‘What do you think it is?’
‘It’s very blurred of course, but to me it looks like hieroglyphs. Writing on the wall – literally speaking.’ Carrington remembered Jack Rogan’s remarkable success with dissecting photographs, especially innocuous features lurking in the background.
Haddad looked at his friend. ‘Now that you mention it ... yes, you’re right. I will call Cairo straight away.’
‘Let’s see what your lab boys can come up with. Who knows, it might just give us a little clue ...’
‘What’s wrong?’ Carrington asked, walking past the guard into Haddad’s office early the next morning. Haddad sat at his desk. He was staring intently ahead.
‘This was delivered here just after midnight,’ Haddad said, holding up a crumpled piece of paper.
‘By whom?’
‘A little urchin, running an errand for a stranger in return for a few coins. Anonymous and safe.’
‘What is it, a ransom demand?’ Carrington asked hopefully.
‘See for yourself.’
Carrington read the note. ‘What does this mean? The woman will be executed in three days for having desecrated our glorious dead. What does he want?’ Haddad couldn’t look at his friend. Instead, he covered his face with his hands.
‘Withdraw your forces from Luxor and expel all foreigners or others will share her fate,’ Carrington read on. ‘It’s addressed to you.’ He kept staring at the paper in his
hand.
‘Not exactly what we expected, is it?’ Haddad said at last.
‘Three days! My God, this is madness. What is he going to do – just kill her?’
‘I’m doing all I can, Marcus, believe me, but we’re dealing with a fanatic – at least no longer an anonymous one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We did make some progress here last night – significant progress.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember, I told you the Americans were following a promising lead about this self-proclaimed Defender of the Faith who appeared out of nowhere. Well, they’ve come up with this ...’
Haddad walked over to the whiteboard and pointed to a new piece of paper pinned to it. ‘The Defender of the Faith has a name – Dr Mamoud Halef Omar, eminent Egyptologist and former director of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. We even have a photo from his old employment records – right here.’
‘Could this really be the man?’ muttered Carrington. The man in the photo – handsome, young, in a smart Western suit – looked vaguely familiar.
‘Well, here’s his profile – straight from the CIA: Mamoud Halef Omar was educated at an exclusive French boarding school in Alexandria and then studied in Paris and Cambridge where he obtained his PhD. He returned to Egypt and commenced work at the Egyptian Antiquities Organisation in Cairo. He rose rapidly to prominence and became Deputy Director of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo at an early age,’ Haddad read.
‘Now here’s the really interesting bit: In 1992, he became embroiled in a much publicised scandal involving an important find in Luxor. According to the records of the investigation by his Department, Omar refused to acknowledge the discovery of an old papyrus found by one of his colleagues and tried to suppress the find. The manuscript itself vanished. At the same time, a number of valuable antiquities were stolen from the museum and various excavation sites throughout Egypt and it was widely rumoured that Omar was somehow involved. Omar disappeared before the enquiry was completed and charges could be laid. The file was closed. According to the colleague who found the papyrus the document was an important fourteenth century letter written in French by one of the Knights Templar – Armand de Blanquefort.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 34
