‘How did you get it?’
‘Krakowski found it among his father’s papers in a Swiss bank vault.’ Haddad shook his head in disbelief. ‘Fortunately, Krakowski had the original with him; in his Rome apartment, in a wall safe. And to his everlasting credit, he didn’t hesitate for a moment before handing it over.’
‘Is it authentic?’ Haddad asked sceptically.
‘Absolutely. Here’s the proof.’ Carrington pinned another page next to the Bernard Dispatch.
‘What’s that?’
‘A translation of the Latin part; detailed instructions to guide us to the exact place where the knights hid the tablet before they were killed by the Emperor’s men in 1305.’
Haddad walked across to the board and read the translation. ‘This is it?’ he asked. ‘This could be anywhere.’
‘True. You have to know where the knights were killed to make sense of it. In other words, you have to know where Omar’s manuscript was found.’
‘How would you ... but of course; it was Professor Khalil who found it,’ Haddad said excitedly, slapping Carrington on the back. ‘She must know.’
‘She does.’
‘Well?’
‘Right here in Luxor.’
Haddad was drumming his fingers impatiently against the desktop. ‘But where?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Why are scholars always so longwinded?’
‘Why are policemen always so impatient?’
‘We don’t like dead bodies, that’s why.’
‘We like to get it right.’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Professor Khalil believes the tablet is hidden in the Karnak temple complex; all the available evidence appears to suggest this.’
‘Great. That’s one of the largest archaeological sites in the world. Good luck!’
‘But she knows exactly where.’
‘She does? What, from these instructions?’
‘Yes. Remember she worked in the temple with Omar for several years. They were restoring inscriptions.’
‘Of course ... then Omar must know as well ... As soon as he reads this ...’
‘Yes, but none of this really matters right now,’ Carrington interrupted impatiently. ‘We must hand over the original papyrus – we’re running out of time! How do we give it to him? What about Jana? Will there be an exchange, what about ... how ... when?’
‘Calm down, please ...’ Haddad held up his hand. ‘Until you walked in here we had nothing to hand over – right? You have to let me handle this my way. We’re in a difficult position here; we have to be very careful.’ Haddad scribbled something on a piece of notepaper and then rang the bell on his desk. An old man in a white turban entered almost immediately. Haddad folded the note in half and handed it to him. ‘You know what to do. Hurry!’
‘What was all that? ‘Carrington asked.
‘I’m arranging the handover. Try to relax – please?’
Carrington took a deep breath. ‘You’re right of course, it’s just the ...’
‘Relentless sand in the hourglass,’ Haddad interrupted. ‘I know.’
Carrington looked gratefully at his friend. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We wait – this is Egypt. Trust me.’
‘Don’t you want to know about Dr Hudson and the elusive tomb of the master painter of Deir el-Medina?’ Carrington asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.’
Haddad could barely keep his eyes open. ‘Are you telling me you’ve tracked him down as well?’ he asked, rubbing his tired eyes.
‘I didn’t, but Jack Rogan did; at the Huka Lodge.’
‘Another mystery location, what’s that?’
‘A fishing retreat in New Zealand.’
Haddad shook his head in disbelief. ‘And?’
‘Dr Hudson remembered the tomb well. It was closed up a few years ago, just as Professor Khalil said. Difficult to find and all that, but there’s one ray of hope ...’
‘Oh?’
‘Ahmad Babar.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The foreman who was in charge of all the local workers during the dig. He lives somewhere right here in a village near Luxor and apparently knows exactly where to find the tomb.’ Carrington looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose it’s now all up to you, Chief Inspector. This is your turf. I’ve done my bit, wouldn’t you agree?’
Haddad looked stunned. ‘Would the position of assistant chief inspector be of any interest to you?’ he asked casually. ‘We could use resourceful chaps like you.’ Carrington shook his head. ‘You’d be out of your depth, I suppose, is that it?’
‘I’m a scholar, not a policeman, remember?’
Haddad picked up the phone and said something quickly in Arabic. ‘Well then, the local chief of police is on his way; he’ll take us to Babar.’ Haddad said. ‘We might as well do something useful while we wait for the handover, don’t you think? This is my bit; happy?
‘Not bad. That’s why you are the chief inspector, see?’
86
Ahmad Babar straightened his aching back and wiped his neck with a wet rag. He was irrigating the family’s fields with the shadoof by raising precious Nile water from the river into the channels running between the plots. It was backbreaking work. His donkey was patiently waiting in the shade for his evening trot back to the village. Reaching for his water bottle, Babar noticed a plume of dust drifting through the palm trees.
A jeep skidded along the rutted track and came to a halt next to the donkey. Three men got out; Babar recognised one of them – the local police chief. This could be trouble, he thought, watching the men apprehensively.
‘Greetings from Dr Hudson,’ said the police chief, walking over to his cousin. Carrington and Haddad stayed behind, letting the two men talk in private. The police chief showed something to his cousin, who looked at it for a long time. After much gesticulation and hand wringing, Babar nodded and the two men approached the jeep.
‘He knows where it is,’ the police chief said in English. ‘He thinks he can find it. But we have to be careful. He’s really scared.’
‘Do you think he knows something ... about ...?’ Carrington asked, looking anxious.
‘We’ll take him back to the station,’ Haddad said, frowning at his watch. The sun was rapidly sinking lower, approaching the top of the rugged cliffs to the west. He knew there would be no room for error.
When they walked into the Luxor police station, they were greeted by chaos. A car bomb had just exploded at Sharm el-Sheik – a popular tourist resort on the Red Sea – killing at least eighty. Moments after the bomb went off – detonated by a suicide bomber driving a truck into a crowded restaurant – the Brotherhood for the Liberation of Holy Places had claimed responsibility by sending a taped message to Al Jazeera, the Arabic TV station. Apparently, the attack was in retaliation for the Luxor airport massacre. The message ended with a demand for all foreigners to leave Egypt.
‘This is all we need,’ fumed Haddad, trying to fend off the pack of excited officers attempting to speak to him all at once.
‘Don’t let anyone pass unless I say so,’ he instructed the guard at the door. ‘Come.’ He took Carrington by the arm and steered him along the crowded corridor. ‘We don’t have much time. Close the door.’ Haddad walked to his desk and unfolded a large map of Deir el-Medina.
‘Show me, where is it?’ Haddad demanded, pointing to the map. The police chief pushed his frightened cousin towards the desk. Carrington looked anxiously out the window; he was watching the shadows in the square below grow longer by the minute.
Babar stared at the map for a long time. ‘It’s approximately here, Sir,’ he said finally, pointing with a dirty fingernail to a spot on the map.
Haddad looked at him sceptically. ‘You don’t seem very certain.’
‘I’m sure I can take you to it. But here ... on the map ...’ Babar shrugged apologetically.
‘Could you find it at
night, in the dark?’
‘I think so.’
Haddad was about to ask something else when the door opened and the old man with the white turban appeared in the doorway. ‘I thought I told you ...’ Haddad barked, looking up. He stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Come in.’
The man hurried across the room and handed Haddad a note. ‘We have a reply! Take him outside,’ Haddad said, pointing to Babar. Turning to the whiteboard, he pinned up the note. ‘Omar wants the original dispatch first – to authenticate it. If it’s authentic, Jana will be released. There will be no exchange.’
‘That’s it?’ Carrington asked, his voice sounding shrill. Haddad shrugged.
‘We can’t just give him what he wants and then hope for the best without anything to bargain with,’ Carrington protested, ‘surely!’
‘Do you have a better idea?’ Haddad snapped back, looking pale and exhausted. ‘He’s holding a life in his hands; we only have an old papyrus. At least it will buy us a little time.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry, it’s just that ...’
Haddad slapped Carrington encouragingly on the back. ‘I understand – tick tock. But this is the time to stay calm and outfox the fox; and you and I will do just that.’ Carrington looked at him sadly, admiring his friend’s energy and optimism.
‘Please, give it to me ...’ Carrington handed him the papyrus. Haddad scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it in half, attached it to the papyrus and gave it to the old man standing at his desk. ‘Go – hurry!’ The man left the room.
‘Now, come over here and listen.’ said Haddad, turning to Carrington. ‘How do you catch a desert fox?’ Haddad asked rhetorically. ‘You become like him; you try to think like he thinks, feel what he feels, want what he wants,’ Haddad answered his own question. ‘I believe I know how Omar thinks and what he wants.’
‘You do?’ Carrington asked.
‘This attack at Sharm el-Sheik changes everything. We have very little time. I’ve been ordered by Cairo to take over the investigation; I should really be on my way right now,’ Haddad explained. ‘I think this is all related. Just look at the timing ... Rule number one – don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Are you suggesting he wants to draw us away from here?’ asked the police chief.
‘Absolutely, and distract us. Obviously the planning for this attack has been going on for a long time – so why now, at this very moment? Coincidence? Hardly.’ Carrington was following the exchange with interest. ‘What do you think?’ Haddad asked, turning to his friend.
‘The way I see it, we’re dealing with a man here with two separate agendas, with two quite separate personalities, if you like. On the one hand, we have Omar the terrorist, the leader of the Brotherhood who has just escaped certain death by trying to assert himself as the true Defender of the Faith.’ Carrington paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘On the other, we have Omar the scholar, obsessed with the notion of finding the – how did Professor Khalil put it – the ultimate prize of archaeology, the tablet, which as of right now, may almost be within his grasp.’
‘Very good, go on ...’ Haddad encouraged Carrington.
‘If I were that hypothetical desert fox, I would translate the letter immediately – that goes without saying – and then try to find the location before it’s too late, for whatever reason. In short, I wouldn’t hesitate, I wouldn’t wait. I would go for it – now.’
‘I agree. Omar knows this whole area – the Karnak temple in particular – like no other. He worked here for years, charting the temple, restoring it. Professor Khalil seems convinced that the tablet is hidden somewhere in the temple precinct,’ Haddad said, developing Carrington’s thoughts further. ‘If she’s right, we have the perfect trap, with the bait already waiting.’
‘Irresistibly – for the last seven hundred years or so,’ Carrington pointed out.
Haddad turned to the police chief. ‘We’ll put the entire temple under surveillance – at once, but discreetly. Forgive me for saying this, but I cannot trust the local officers here, not after what happened. Use the commando unit we brought up from Alexandria.’ The police chief looked glum. ‘You know I’d trust you with my life, Ali, but please ... understand.’
‘You’re right of course; I’ll take care of it at once.’
‘And leave all the beggars and other riff-raff who spend the nights there undisturbed. Everything must look normal. Use them as cover,’ Haddad suggested. ‘We don’t want to scare our fox away, now, do we? Be careful! If Omar gets wind of this ...’
‘The men will melt into the stone, I assure you; no one will know they’re there.’
‘I hope so.’ Haddad took a deep breath after the police chief had rushed out of the room. ‘Now, let’s get down to the important bit.’
‘What do you mean?’ Carrington asked.
‘Finding Uni’s tomb, of course. What else?’
87
Omar couldn’t control his rising excitement. Drifting slowly across the Nile towards him was a felucca, its large, triangular sail trapping the evening breeze. The moment he’d dreamt about for so many years was coming closer; the arduous journey was nearing its end. He unrolled the original Blanquefort Prayer – the very papyrus his assistant had found in the Karnak temple – and, brushing small pieces of sand off the carpet, he placed it carefully in front of him.
‘The Holy Relic we leave behind is but a shell – empty, its very essence gone,’ he began to read. ‘The ... of the Prophet are out of our enemies’ reach; one is on its way to France with a dispatch recording the hiding place of the other ...’ he repeated quietly.
The dispatch recording the hiding place of the other was within his grasp. Finally coming towards him, now, on the felucca approaching the jetty.
‘What if it’s a fake?’ he asked himself for the hundredth time. He tried to dismiss the doubt, but knew there was only one way to banish it forever.
The vessel drifted into the reeds and came to a stop. One of Omar’s young bodyguards jumped ashore, waved at Omar sitting in front of his tent and came running up the embankment.
‘Do you have it, my son?’ whispered Omar, barely able to speak.
‘I do.’ The eager young man knelt down beside him and pulled a scroll out of the sleeve of his jalabiya. It was almost dark and a blood-red moon rose slowly out of the eastern desert like the angry eye of a waking Cyclops; ominous.
‘Blanquefort’s dispatch to the Grand Master,’ Omar exclaimed, ‘it is!’ He held the manuscript close to the lantern. Then he placed it next to the Blanquefort Prayer on the carpet in front of him. Identical: same brittle papyrus, same handwriting, same discolouration. Feeling calmer now, he pulled pencil and paper out of a large pocket in his robe and began to translate the Latin part of the text.
Omar moved camp every day to reduce the risk of detection or, worse still, betrayal. By always keeping close to the Nile he was able to travel by boat, which not only greatly improved his mobility but added to his cover. Omar travelled with a small entourage – two young bodyguards who would gladly lay down their lives for him. He communicated with his mullahs by messenger or satellite phone to make certain no one really knew where he was.
‘Allah be praised!’ Omar said at last, putting down his pencil. ‘It’s all here!’ In the approaching darkness, the full moon had transformed the river into a band of molten silver – a path leading all the way to the temple looming large in the distance. It was irresistible, drawing him closer with the alluring siren call only he could hear.
Omar looked at the original text for a long time. It was all so simple, so obvious. Only one small uncertainty remained: what if someone had accidentally found the hiding place? It had been there for seven hundred years. With so much mindless plunder in earlier times and, more recently, so much restoration, one could never be sure.
And to have been able to barter this priceless document for one mere useless infidel, a woman at that, made the success even sweeter. Westerners were so sentiment
al, such gullible fools. And as for holding her pitiful life in his hands, the mere thought made him tremble with excitement. Her execution would be the final act, giving his reputation a much needed lift.
‘We’ll break camp tonight,’ Omar announced, standing up, ‘and leave by boat.’ The full moon was an auspicious sign, he thought. The night and the moon – darkness for cover and the full moon to show the way; all the light they’d need.
‘The moment has arrived, my sons,’ Omar said, pointing towards Luxor. To the two impressionable young men watching him in awe, Omar looked, and sounded, very much like The Chosen One.
88
Carrington followed Haddad up the barren hill from the Nile, careful not to lose his footing in the dark. Babar and two marksmen led the way.
‘Our camp was right there,’ Babar explained pointing to a narrow ledge overlooking the ancient village of the pharaoh’s tomb builders.
‘Not so loud!’ Haddad said, mindful that any noise would travel far in the exposed cemetery, especially at night. The full moon helped Babar orientate himself, but made the group more conspicuous in the open rugged terrain.
Carrington felt awkward in his dark jalabiya and kept adjusting his turban. He would have preferred his trusty hat. They stopped at the ledge and sat down, realising that nothing attracts the eye more than motion. To the marksmen, their night vision gear strapped on, all appeared quiet and deserted. The whole area was pockmarked with excavated shafts leading into the tombs of the pharaoh’s workmen; most were no more than small holes in the ground, often filled with sand and rubble.
‘From the camp over here, we walked along the ridge – there – then we got to the tomb,’ Babar whispered excitedly.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 37
