‘Could you repeat that?’ Carrington interrupted excitedly. Haddad handed him the report.
Carrington read the passage again and smiled. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a single sheet of paper and pinned it to the whiteboard.
‘What’s this?’ Haddad asked, putting on his glasses.
‘This, my friend, is a copy of the papyrus found by Dr Omar’s colleague.’ Haddad opened his mouth to say something but was, momentarily, speechless. ‘Well, what are you going to do – sit there?’ Carrington asked, reprimanding his friend.
‘No, of course not! Where on earth did you get this?’ Carrington just shrugged. ‘I’m trying to find out as much as I can about Dr Mamoud Omar – know your enemy, remember, Marcus Aurelius? I’ve already arranged for Professor Khalil to come here this morning – all the way from Cairo.’
‘Who is Professor Khalil?’
‘The Director of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo; Omar’s former assistant who found the papyrus. I’m sure the good professor would be most interested to know how you got your hands on that.’ Haddad pointed to the whiteboard.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just anxious – the relentless sand in the hour glass ...’ said Carrington, regretting the earlier curt remark.
‘I know.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘She, not he,’ Haddad corrected, looking out the window. ‘You’ll find out in a moment; she’s just getting out of the car. But, how ... did you?’ asked Haddad, pointing to the piece of paper Carrington had just pinned to the whiteboard.
‘I’ll tell you when she gets here.’
81
‘You are full of surprises, Chief Inspector,’ Fatima Khalil said, holding out her hand. ‘A phone call at dawn, an Army jeep with a military escort and an Air Force jet, all just for me. How exciting.’
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, enjoying the nicotine rush. ‘Well, here I am. Surely you didn’t bring me all this way to discuss the inundation level of the Nile?’
Carrington couldn’t help but admire the confidence of the elegant woman leaning casually against Haddad’s desk. She reminded him instantly of Dr Rosen – same aura, same spark, same vintage. For a Muslim woman to succeed in Egypt and reach high office as she had obviously done, was remarkable in itself. Haddad introduced Carrington.
‘What you told me on the phone was intriguing enough, to say the least. I’m used to mysteries, it goes with my job,’ Professor Khalil said, laughing, ‘but there’s obviously more to all this.’
‘I’ll let Marcus explain the rest,’ Haddad said. ‘This part should really come from a scholar, not a policeman.’
Carrington walked across to the whiteboard, removed the sheet of paper he had pinned there earlier and handed it to Professor Khalil. The expression on her face changed abruptly. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on Haddad’s desk and held up the paper with both hands.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked quietly. Her voice sounded hoarse and had lost its earlier confidence.
‘It was offered for sale.’
‘By whom?’
‘This man, we believe.’ Haddad handed Omar’s personnel photo to Professor Khalil.
‘Omar?’ The professor paled.
‘It would appear so.’ Carrington nodded.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Your help, Professor. A woman’s life may depend on it.’ Carrington handed the photo of Jana kneeling half naked in front of her captors to Professor Khalil.
‘You knew Omar very well. You worked with him for years, you were colleagues. We need to find out all we can about him. Quickly,’ Carrington continued.
‘Yes, but that was years ago.’ Professor Khalil fumbled nervously with her handbag and lit another cigarette.
‘You found the Templar papyrus. It was your discovery, a significant one, I believe,’ interrupted Haddad.
‘Yes it was,’ Professor Khalil agreed, ‘but the scandal, the investigation, the ruined careers and the innuendos that followed – is a chapter in my life I would rather forget.’
‘I completely understand,’ Carrington said, ‘but – and please forgive me for saying this – that’s a luxury we just cannot afford in this case.’ Professor Khalil glanced again at the photo in her hand and nodded.
‘Omar is one of the most brilliant men I have ever come across. He’s a gifted linguist with a phenomenal memory. He’s charming, witty, the proverbial walking lexicon; a genius,’ Professor Khalil explained quietly, ‘especially with ancient languages. We called him our petit Champollion – after the decipherer of the hieroglyphs – I think he rather liked that.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Carrington.
‘Quite. Anyway, he had it all: career, international acclaim, and a beautiful French wife. He was very ambitious and extremely jealous. When his wife left him, it all changed. He became a different man.’
‘In what way?’ Carrington asked.
‘She had an affair with one of his colleagues – a French archaeologist – and ran off to France with him. And Omar became a virtual recluse, introverted, a loner. And, while religion had never played a major part in his life, he turned to Islam – in a most radical way ...’ Haddad locked eyes with Carrington. ‘He took a dislike to all foreigners, especially tourists visiting ancient sites,’ continued Professor Khalil. ‘He called them infidels, unwelcome intruders. It was as if ...’ she paused, searching for the right words, ‘he had declared war on the world – the Western world, if you know what I mean. He grew a beard and discarded Western clothes, preferring sandals and the simple jalabiya. We actually used to tease him about it.’ Professor Khalil’s face held a faint smile as she remembered her former colleague dressed like a cleric.
‘And then, he became obsessed with something he’d discovered during his research; it had to do with the holy places of Islam. I remember, he was writing a paper on it. He was always writing papers, translating old texts and publishing articles. He was doing some work on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, to be precise. Inside the Dome there’s an outcropping of the bedrock of Mount Moriah with an indentation, a mark in the rock, believed to be the footprint left by the prophet Mohammed as he leapt into heaven. This is also the site of the original temple of Solomon which, as you know, was built to house the Ark of the Covenant.’ Professor Khalil sensed a growing impatience in her audience.
‘There’s a reason I’m telling you all this,’ she explained. ‘You want information about the man I knew. This is all part of it – an essential part.’
‘Please do go on,’ Haddad said, encouraging her.
‘He was fascinated by the Knights Templar ... they occupied the Al-Aqsa Mosque for seven years during the Crusades ... I’m not sure if you knew that. Anyway, he was convinced they’d come to Jerusalem with a secret mission – looking for something.’
‘What exactly?’ asked Carrington. Professor Khalil looked wistfully at him and reached for the ashtray; she was obviously playing for time.
‘The Ark of the Covenant,’ she replied quietly at last.
‘And this obsession, you mentioned,’ Carrington asked, ‘can you tell us more about that?’
‘The Ark of the Covenant, well ... more accurately its contents were at the very centre of his mania. Omar was sure that if he discovered the legendary Tablets of Moses – assuming of course they did in fact exist – it would be the ultimate prize; enormous religious and political ramifications. He called them the Holy Grail of Archaeology. And I suppose, in a way, they would be just that. What he had come across in his research was an ancient Ethiopian text – the Kebra Nagast. Are you familiar with it?’ Professor Khalil asked, looking at Carrington.
‘I am. Please go on.’
‘And the Ethiopian legend about the disappearance of the tabotat – the theft of the Ark by the Templars?’ Carrington nodded. ‘Omar firmly believed the legend was based on fact. We had many arguments about that. On this subject
he appeared totally inflexible; completely convinced, without any objectivity. He had the certainty of a somnambulist.’
‘I’m afraid you’re losing me here,’ Haddad interrupted.
‘I’ll be brief,’ promised Professor Khalil. ‘This is the connection: the discovery of the Templar letter – a simple papyrus wrapped around a dagger with the Blanquefort family crest engraved on the blade, was the first, well, no, it was the only tangible piece of evidence to suggest that the Ethiopian legend may be fact. It became an obsession. This led to the scandal I mentioned, the investigation and his ultimate dismissal and subsequent disappearance. But you know all about that.’
‘Do you think Omar still feels the same way about finding that elusive Holy Grail of Archaeology? After all these years?’
‘An obsession like Omar’s doesn’t go away; it only becomes stronger and more compelling.’
‘Then why would he have offered the letter for sale – just recently? How do we explain that? Doesn’t that suggest the opposite?’ Carrington probed.
‘Not necessarily. Without knowing the circumstances, it’s difficult for me to say, but just prior to the scandal, he wanted to do just that.’
‘What? Sell the papyrus – but why?’
‘No – not actually sell it, but offer it for sale, to find out who might be interested. The idea behind it was simple: anyone showing interest in such an obscure document had to know a great deal about the subject and could therefore ...’
‘Have some information concerning the whereabouts of the hidden tablet – information about the hiding place ...’ interjected Carrington.
‘Precisely. Offer the papyrus for sale to flush out what others might know.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘Classic Omar.’
‘If Omar were to be offered that information now, what do you think he would do?’ Carrington asked, watching Professor Khalil carefully.
‘What are you suggesting – information concerning the hiding place referred to in the papyrus?’ Carrington nodded. ‘He would do anything to get his hands on it,’ Professor Khalil replied without hesitation.
‘Do you think he would trade the life of a woman – an infidel – in return?’
‘He would trade his own soul.’
‘I was hoping you would say that.’
‘Don’t look so glum, he’ll call back, you’ll see,’ said Haddad, slapping Carrington encouragingly on the back.
‘I’ve tried all morning. His mobile is switched off,’ Carrington complained.
‘But you spoke to his housekeeper in London ...’
‘She wasn’t much help. All she said was that Krakowski is giving a charity concert in Rome.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. We’re running out of time!’
‘Well, why don’t you go to Rome and talk to him? At least you know he’ll be there; it may be the only way.’
‘Are you serious? Do you think I could get there in time?’ Carrington asked hopefully.
‘Sure. You can go back to Cairo with Professor Khalil – her plane is leaving shortly. I’ll make sure you’re on a connecting flight to Rome.’
‘And you’ll make contact with Omar as we agreed?’ fussed Carrington, pacing nervously up and down in front of Haddad’s desk.
‘Keep calm. Just leave that to me,’ Haddad said. Carrington smiled at him gratefully.
Carrington sat next to Professor Khalil in the Air Force jet returning to Cairo. Apart from some military personnel chatting in the back, they were alone in the cabin.
‘I would value your opinion on this,’ said Carrington, taking the enhanced image of the hostage photo out of his pocket. ‘What do you make of it?’ Carrington pointed to the wall in the background behind the armed guards in the picture. ‘Something about it looks vaguely familiar to me. I think I’ve seen this before – somewhere.’
Professor Khalil held the photo close to her face. ‘Here, this might help,’ said Carrington, handing her a magnifying glass.
‘That’s better. Well, this is rather interesting. Firstly, here on the right – it’s a classic composition: Thoth on a throne with an ankh in his left hand and a staff in his right. You can just see the ibis head here,’ said the professor, pointing to the curved beak behind the guard on the right. ‘And on the left we have a man, the deceased I’d say, paying homage to the god. The portion of text here, reading from left to right, is from the Book of the Dead, Chapter 94,’ came the precise answer. ‘This is a tomb and what’s particularly noteworthy is the exceptional quality of the painting; pity this isn’t in colour. I agree with you, there’s something rather familiar about the composition ... I wonder ...’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Just a hunch. I’d prefer to look it up in our library first ... this is too serious for speculation.’
‘Sure. Would you?’ Carrington realised there was no point in pressing the professor for more.
‘Certainly.’ She put her hand reassuringly on his arm, enjoying the closeness of this interesting man sitting next to her. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your family; Naguib told me. Regrettably, we live in violent times. If Omar is really behind all this, I will certainly do all I can to help, you can count on it. I too have a score to settle, remember?’
‘We have two days,’ Carrington reminded her.
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘If you find anything, anything at all, please call me, day or night.’
‘I will. And if you should really get your hands on Blanquefort’s dispatch with the instructions ...’
‘You don’t think I can, do you?’
‘I doubt it.’ Professor Khalil shook her head.
‘Trust me, I will,’ Carrington said confidently. ‘Do you want to know why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Because I know where it is.’
82
First, the jumbo circled the Eternal City, and then lined up to land. Carrington turned on his mobile and glanced at the screen. At last, he thought and began to press the buttons. Concert starts 8 pm – Colosseum. Ticket at entrance. Ben. Carrington looked at his watch; he would be cutting it fine.
The taxi driver ignored the blaring horns of the cars stalling behind him, and pulled up next to a double-parked stretch limo. Carrington paid the fare and ran towards the entrance. It was five minutes to eight.
Carrington felt like an intruder in his crumpled tweed jacket and khaki slacks; everyone around him was dressed in dinner suits and evening gowns. Using his few words of Italian, Carrington tried to explain to the security guard at the gate that a ticket was supposed to be waiting for him. At first, the guard just eyed him suspiciously. However, as soon as Carrington mentioned Krakowski’s name, a ticket materialised and he was shown to his row. The power of fame, he thought and settled gratefully into his seat. Slowly, the excited voices around him fell silent as the lights went out.
Suddenly, out of the darkness below, came a strange sound – the unmistakable roar of a lion – followed by steel clashing against steel. Conjuring up images of swords, shields and battle axes, the eerie sound effects spoke of combat, blood and death; a cruel cacophony of suffering long past. Carrington looked up. Fingers of coloured light parted the darkness and began to explore the top of the open arena. Illuminating an arch here, a column there, the light beams spiralled slowly downwards.
When the light reached the stage at the bottom of the arena, the orchestra began to play Handel’s Entry of the Queen of Sheba. A tall woman wearing a black evening gown stepped into the pool of light. Leaning forward, Carrington recognised Dr Rosen.
‘Welcome,’ said the lady in black, speaking English. An Italian translation appeared on two large TV screens mounted on the crumbling stone walls behind the stage. ‘I’m sure most of you would have wondered why the Colosseum – such a notorious venue – was chosen for this occasion. A venue famous for its violent past, where life was cheap and countless people died in the most barbaric circumstanc
es to entertain the bloodthirsty citizens of Imperial Rome. The choice, ladies and gentlemen, was quite deliberate. What brings you here tonight is a noble cause.’ Dr Rosen paused, letting her voice echo through the ancient edifice, and slowly raised her arms in a gesture of embrace.
‘We can rise above the cruel and the callous; we can turn a place like this into an arena of compassion and generosity ...’ The audience responded with enthusiastic applause.
She’s a natural, marvelled Carrington, no wonder they call her the Pied Piper of the Chequebook. Swept along by the adoring crowd, he stood up and began to clap as well.
‘I have a little surprise for you,’ Dr Rosen announced. ‘There will be a small addition to our program tonight. We are privileged to have as our special guest an artist who, I am sure, is well known to you all and whose music has inspired and delighted us with its extraordinary beauty. Ladies and gentlemen, Maestro Benjamin Krakowski has agreed to open our concert by playing for us the first movement of his Second Violin Concerto.’
Krakowski acknowledged the applause and the cheers by holding up his violin, and walked on stage. He kissed Dr Rosen gallantly on the cheek, bowed towards the audience and then turned around to face the orchestra seated behind him.
A short distance away – in the Vatican – Cardinal Brandauer turned up the volume on his TV and pressed the record button. The camera zoomed in on Krakowski leading the orchestra through the stirring opening bars of his concerto. So, this is the man who will lead us to our elusive destination, mused the cardinal, concentrating on a close-up of Krakowski’s expressive face. I wonder ... The white hair – a little too long – the closed eyes, the prominent nose and the strong, almost chiselled chin, all looked the part. Krakowski is a lucky man, thought the Cardinal, not only is he a brilliant performer, he looks like one too.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 35
