An usher tapped Carrington on the shoulder during the intermission, mentioned Krakowski’s name and pointed to a set of stairs. Threading their way through the noisy crowd lining up for free champagne, they descended into the Colosseum’s labyrinthine underworld.
‘Salve Caesar, morituri te salutant,’ Krakowksi joked, recognising Carrington in the archway. ‘According to Signore Cavalli here, this is where the gladiators used to enter the arena. He should know, he’s the mayor of Rome,’ continued Krakowski, laughing. He introduced Carrington to the smiling gentleman standing next to him. ‘You look like you need a drink – here.’ Krakowski handed Carrington a glass of champagne. ‘What’s all this about Jana? Your messages were rather cryptic and my housekeeper is a woman of few words.’
‘Can we go somewhere a little more ... you know, private?’
‘Sure, how about the lion’s den, over there.’
‘I thought we were in it,’ Carrington replied, pointing to the raucous crowd. Krakowski steered Carrington through another archway. When he turned around, a tall man wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo bumped into him. Apologising profusely in broken Italian, the man walked away. Another one, thought Krakowski, even here.
‘Jana’s been abducted – by the terrorists.’ Carrington handed a copy of the hostage photo to Krakowski.
Shocked, Krakowski stared at the picture. ‘It just goes on, and on, doesn’t it? Will it ever stop?’
‘When will what stop?’ Dr Rosen asked, butting in from behind. ‘Benjamin told me you would come. All this way just for our little fund-raiser, I’m impressed.’ She kissed Carrington on the cheek. ‘It’s nice to see you.’
‘He didn’t come here for that,’ Krakowski explained sadly. ‘Here, look at this.’ When he handed her the hostage photo, a loud gong signalled the end of the intermission.
‘We have to go,’ said Dr Rosen, returning the photo. ‘I’m so sorry, Marcus, this is awful! How can we help?’ The gong boomed again, this time more urgently.
Carrington thrust the note announcing Jana’s imminent execution into Krakowski’s hand. ‘Here, read this, Benjamin. I would like to offer the Defender of the Faith something in return for Jana’s life,’ he said, ‘something he has coveted for years ...’
‘Oh? What?’ Krakowski asked, walking towards the stairs.
Carrington swallowed hard. ‘The original Blanquefort letter you found in the deposit box ...’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I need your help, Benjamin ...’
‘Not now. Please ... after the concert ...’
‘It’ll be all right, Marcus,’ said Dr Rosen, squeezing Carrington’s arm. ‘Trust me,’ she added and hurried after Krakowski.
Instead of returning to his seat, Carrington remained in the gloomy domain of the gladiators and wild beasts. The music sounded different down there; more distant, filtered somehow, by stone and time. Carrington felt suddenly very tired and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he thought he could see shadows floating up the stairs from below, and hear footsteps. He felt something brushing against his chest, but it was only the mobile vibrating in his shirt pocket.
‘I’ve been trying to ring you all evening,’ an excited voice said on the other end. ‘I have ...’ The reception was poor and the voice trailed off.
‘Fatima, I can barely hear you,’ Carrington shouted, suddenly wide awake. ‘Have you found something?’
‘Yes!’
83
Professor Khalil told her driver to wait at the exit and hurried into the Cairo airport terminal. Carrington’s plane had just landed.
‘Your hunch was right,’ Professor Khalil said excitedly, ‘not bad for an amateur.’ She linked arms with Carrington and guided him to her waiting car. ‘We’ve both seen the tomb painting before – or to put it more accurately – we’ve seen something very similar before.’
‘Similar? That’s hardly good news.’
‘Patience.’ The driver opened the car door and they climbed into the back seat.
‘What appeared so familiar to us was this here. It’s from another tomb, a famous one – this one.’ Professor Khalil handed Carrington a coloured photo showing an almost identical composition. The only difference was the figure facing the god and the text itself. Instead of a man, it was Queen Nefertari who was paying homage to Thoth.
‘Queen Nefertari’s House of Eternity,’ said Carrington, ‘of course! Obviously Jana isn’t held in there; Nefertari’s tomb is open to the public. But the paintings are so similar, one could be forgiven for thinking,’ Carrington speculated, ‘that they were perhaps painted by the same artist. How strange.’
‘That’s exactly what we thought at the museum. Fortunately, one of my colleagues remembered this,’ Professor Khalil said, handing Carrington a journal – an American university publication. ‘Try page 12.’
The article, entitled The Master Painter of Deir el-Medina – A Workman’s Tomb, was by Dr Reuben Hudson of Chicago. Under the heading was a picture. Carrington pulled the creased copy of the enhanced abduction photo out of his coat pocket and placed it next to the article. The wall scenes were identical.
‘The hieroglyphic texts here, and here, are the same. Both are from Chapter 94 of the Book of the Dead. The text in Nefertari’s tomb is different,’ Professor Khalil said.
Carrington began to read the article. Dr Hudson compared the similarities between the paintings in Queen Nefertari’s sumptuous tomb and the tomb of Uni, the humble painter. He concluded that they appeared to be the work of the same artist. Artisans living in the pharaoh’s workmen’s village often decorated their own tombs with extraordinary artwork. They had access to all the necessary materials and craftsmen. They had both the skills and the opportunity. Moreover, the pharaoh’s priests not only permitted, but actually encouraged them to do it.
‘Dr Hudson was excavating with his team from Chicago at Deir el-Medina a few years ago when he made an extraordinary discovery,’ Professor Khalil explained. ‘He opened the tomb of a lowly artisan decorated with the most exquisite paintings normally only found in royal tombs. He noticed how similar the decorations were to those in Nefertari’s tomb in the Valley of the Queens which, as you know, is very close to Deir el-Medina. We know for a fact that all the artists who worked on Nefertari’s tomb came from Deir el-Medina.’
‘Do we know where Uni’s tomb is?’ Carrington asked hopefully.
‘That’s the bad news; unfortunately, no. We don’t appear to have a record of its exact location. As soon as the excavation project was completed, the tomb was closed up again to preserve it. This is normal practice.’
‘Well, someone has to know where it is, surely.’
‘Yes, someone obviously does.’
‘Who?’
‘Omar, of course, and Dr Hudson. Omar knows this area like the back of his hand. He was working for the Supreme Council of Antiquities at the time. Not a single stone moved without his permission.’
‘Would the museum know where to reach Dr Hudson?’
‘I knew you’d ask that. His address was on his excavation permit. I have written it down for you. Here it is.’ Carrington leant across to Professor Khalil and kissed her spontaneously on the cheek.
Professor Khalil’s office was on the top floor of the Egyptian Museum. To avoid the tourist crush, they entered the large neoclassical building through a side entrance reserved for staff.
‘This is one of my favourite places in the whole world,’ Carrington said, following Professor Khalil up the stairs past a pair of gigantic stone effigies of Horus. ‘I could just lose myself in here for a while, say, for a year or two ...’
‘You mean just move in and sleep in a sarcophagus, for instance?’
‘Exactly. I used to dream of something just like that as a boy.’
‘I know what you mean. My favourite time is the evening, after all the visitors have gone.’
‘A night at the museum?’ joked Carrington.
‘Something like
that, but not up here. In our storage area in the basement, that’s the place where everything comes alive ... Down there, we probably have more in storage than on display. I like to explore. I like the surprises, the unexpected, the mystery, the wonder of it all. It’s extraordinary what’s in there. Come in.’ Professor Khalil opened the door to her office, walked across to the large desk in front of a window overlooking the entrance and began to rummage through the mountain of papers.
‘Any luck with the ...?’ she asked casually. Expecting a no, she raised an eyebrow and looked a little mockingly at Carrington.
‘This must be your I-told-you-so, look,’ joked Carrington, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope and placed it carefully on top of the desk. ‘Open it.’
Professor Khalil opened the envelope and peered inside, disbelief and wonder transforming her face. ‘It couldn’t be ...’ she whispered, running her fingertips along the lines.
‘We quit Axum with the Holy Relic some three months past and have now reached the Nile,’ she read breathlessly.
Carrington reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘It is. The description of the hiding place is in Latin – quite detailed and precise – down here,’ he said, pointing to the bottom of the page. Professor Khalil reached for a notepad and pen and began to translate.
‘I’ve already done it,’ Carrington said, laughing, ‘but let’s see what you come up with.’ Professor Khalil appeared not to have heard him and continued to scribble furiously on her pad.
‘My Latin is a little rusty, but ...’
‘While you engage in linguistic acrobatics, could I please engage in something a little more mundane – like a phone call?’ Carrington asked.
‘Through there,’ said, Professor Khalil. She pointed with her chin to the left, but didn’t take her eyes off the page.
To track down Dr Hudson quickly turned into a telecommunications nightmare. After a dozen or so calls to universities, non-English speaking housemaids and polite answering machines, Carrington had finally established that Dr Hudson was holidaying somewhere in New Zealand. His last hope was Hudson’s daughter. The reception was bad – crackling annoyingly – and Carrington had to shout to make himself understood. At the end of the confusing conversation he had only written down two things: trout fishing and Huka Lodge.
84
Jack paid the fare and helped the taxi driver with the luggage. He picked up the crumpled envelopes lying under the letterbox bulging with junk mail and walked up the stairs to his front door. A bath and a beer, he thought, stretching his stiff limbs. The Nazi money trail investigation had hit a serious obstacle after the abortion of the Newman trial. The Swiss banks had hired a raft of the best lawyers money could buy to muddy the waters. The strategy was simple: Obstruct and delay, the public has a short memory. Jack’s paper was losing interest; the dream of the big story was turning sour. Feeling exhausted after the long flight from Los Angeles, Jack went into the kitchen, took a cold can of beer out of the fridge and looked at it longingly. He was about to open it, when Waltzing Matilda chimed cheerfully out of his coat pocket. He put the beer on the kitchen table and answered the call.
‘Jack, where are you? It’s Marcus.’
‘At home. Sydney.’
‘I thought you were in the States.’
‘Just walked in.’
‘Thank God!’
‘What do you mean? Where are you?’
‘Cairo. Jana’s been kidnapped. We need your help.’
Jack knew that Jana had gone to Egypt to assist Haddad in capturing the Defender of the Faith. He also knew that Carrington had followed her there after the collapse of the trial. However, since he hadn’t spoken to either of them since leaving Sydney, the news of Jana’s abduction had taken him by complete surprise.
Carrington’s request came at a good time: Jack needed a distraction, and the best distraction was a new story. Replacing dejection with anticipation, the excitement churning in his empty stomach told him that Jana’s abduction had all the hallmarks of a good story: danger and adventure. Still feeling bad about the photographs and their tiff, Jack was eager to redeem himself. This could be the opportunity to do just that, he thought.
Jack left the unopened tinny on the kitchen table and rang for a cab. I could have just asked him to wait. Well, at least I’m packed, he thought, looking at his suitcase in the corner. With a bit of luck, I should just make it. The Air New Zealand flight to Auckland was due to leave in less than three hours.
‘Dr Hudson isn’t here, I’m afraid,’ said the receptionist politely, eying the handsome stranger with interest. ‘He’s camping out tonight with his guide. Secret men’s fishing business,’ she added conspiratorially. The exclusive lodge on the Huka River near Lake Taupo on the North Island of New Zealand was very popular with well-heeled angling enthusiasts from all over the world. The disappointment on Jack’s face said it all.
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ she asked. Jack shook his head sadly. ‘Well, let me see ... if it’s really that urgent, perhaps one of our boys could take you to the camp if you like,’ suggested the hostess, taking pity on the mysterious visitor from Sydney.
Jack was tempted to kiss her. ‘Your blood’s worth bottling, as we say on the other side of the ditch,’ he told her instead. ‘Thanks. And a room as well, please?’
‘We only have a suite left ... ’
‘Do I have to mortgage my house?’
‘Quite possibly.’
It was already dark when Jack walked into the remote camp by the river with his guide. A small fire was burning in front of a neat tent and the mouth-watering aroma of roasting venison drifted across on the evening breeze.
Dr Hudson sat in a canvas chair facing the river. Surprised, he looked up when the two men walked into the circle of light. Instead of being annoyed by the intrusion, the exuberant American welcomed Jack like an old friend and appeared flattered to have been tracked down so far away from home.
‘That’s Uni’s tomb, no doubt about it,’ announced Dr Hudson, pointing to Thoth sitting on his throne. Carrington had faxed a copy of the abduction photo to Jack in Sydney. ‘Poor girl. What are these guys doing in the tomb?’
‘They’re using it as some kind of hiding place.’
‘As a hiding place it’s certainly a good choice,’ Dr Hudson said, refilling Jack’s tumbler for the third time. He didn’t believe in nips. Jack’s head began to spin; he had only eaten airline food for the past three days.
‘Is there any way you can help us find the tomb?’ Jack asked, trying to concentrate.
‘Without actually going there myself, not really. Even then, it wouldn’t be easy. We closed it up after we finished the dig. That was years ago. You’d barely notice anything from the outside now,’ the American explained. ‘I really couldn’t show it to you on a map either, or accurately describe its location. The landscape is barren, monotonous and desert-like, if you know what I mean. There are no obvious landmarks or orientation points.’ The two guides had finished setting the table and were opening the wine. Dinner was about to be served.
‘But ... wait a minute,’ the American said, getting a little unsteadily up from his chair. ‘I have an idea.’ Jack looked at him expectantly. ‘There’s someone who knows the terrain better than anyone; someone who could find the tomb without difficulty, I’m sure.’
‘Who?’
‘Ahmad Babar.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Here, have another scotch,’ Dr Hudson said, putting his arm affectionately around Jack’s shoulder. ‘Come, let’s eat and I’ll tell you all about him.’
85
Carrington hurried up the stairs – taking two at a time – stormed past the dozing guard and burst into Haddad’s Luxor command centre. It was the afternoon of the third day.
‘Well, has he agreed?’ he demanded breathlessly. He took off his hat and began to massage his neck. Glancing at the whiteboard, he noticed it was covered with new material – photos, arrows an
d tight columns of Arabic writing. He also noticed that Haddad was still wearing the same limp clothes.
‘The scout returns,’ Haddad said, waving his assistant impatiently aside. ‘We have finally established a reliable channel of communication with Omar – it took some time I’m afraid. Very high-tech and sophisticated, you should know.’
‘I see. How does it work?’
‘We leave notes for each other in a coffee house – in the bazaar.’
‘That’s it? Are you serious? Is it reliable?’
‘Absolutely. This is Egypt, remember? You must try to understand where you are and who you’re dealing with.’
‘Did he respond to the proposal?’ Carrington ran his fingers nervously through his hair, a haunted look clouding his face. He had spoken to Haddad just before leaving Cairo a few hours before. At that stage, Omar still hadn’t replied.
‘Here.’ Haddad handed Carrington a smooth piece of limestone with Arabic writing on it – in charcoal. ‘This was thrown through one of our windows here just before you arrived.’
‘From Omar?’ Haddad nodded. ‘An ostracon; nice touch. What does it say?’
‘You have until sunset.’
‘Thank God! He has agreed then.’
‘It would appear so, but it doesn’t give us much time. How did you go?’
‘If you had left me some space here, I could add my bit,’ Carrington said, pointing to the whiteboard.
‘Here.’ Haddad tore two pieces of paper off the board. ‘Be my guest.’
Carrington took several pages out of his pocket and began to rearrange the board. He removed the copy of the Blanquefort Prayer he had pinned to the board two days before and attached it to the top left hand corner. Then he stuck the hostage photo next to it, followed by Omar’s execution note. ‘The woman will be executed in three days,’ Carrington read out loud. Holding up the ostracon he said: ‘You have until sunset. This is the third day. Well, here it is.’ He pinned the original Templar dispatch – delivered by Fra. Bernard to the Grand Master in France – to the board and stepped back.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 36
