Omar freed the object, lifted it carefully out of the hole and placed it on the ground. Kneeling down, he ran his trembling hands over the cool surface of the tablet and closed his eyes. It was so different from what he had imagined. The tips of his fingers could feel grooves and shapes – writing. ‘Tabot Musa,’ Omar muttered to himself over and over.
Haddad stared at the man kneeling in the pool of moonlight on the ground below. He wanted to savour the moment a little longer, but something inside him told him to act. He glanced at Carrington lying next to him, reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘An eye for an eye,’ he whispered. ‘Watch.’
‘It’s over, Omar, put your hands above your head,’ Haddad shouted from above, his voice chilling and strong. At first, Omar remained perfectly still, then he rolled to one side with surprising agility and disappeared from view. ‘The temple is surrounded, there’s no way out,’ Haddad continued. Two machine guns began to fire from below, trying to find the voice. Haddad turned towards the police chief. ‘Take them out, but I want Omar alive.’
92
Habakkuk was trying to distract Father Frumentius by chatting quietly about Ethiopia and their early days at the Vatican. Their flight into Luxor had been harrowing and Sorokin suddenly appeared reluctant to make contact with the Defender of the Faith.
Sorokin walked across the hotel terrace, ordered some tea from a passing waiter and watched the two black priests out of the corner of his eye. He had misgivings about coming to Egypt at such short notice and Habakkuk made him feel uneasy. If it hadn’t been for his old friend’s hospital bed plea, he would not have accepted the assignment. And in any case, Newman’s request had come at an awkward time. Dealing with terrorists in a country like Egypt was always dangerous, but making contact with the Defender of the Faith when the entire Egyptian security forces were trying to hunt him down, was reckless. Sorokin knew he had to be very careful.
Sorokin reached into his pocket, and pulled out his mobile; one of his agents was reporting in. Still on the phone, he hurried across to the priests at one of the tables.
‘There’s gunfire at the temple,’ he said, pointing towards Karnak, lit up like a beacon in the distance.
‘The Brotherhood?’ Frumentius asked.
‘Could be. No one really knows what’s going on, but shooting in the middle of the night during the Sound and Light Show, with all those tourists ...’
‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘We go and have a look. Come.’
Sorokin’s agent was waiting in front of the hotel. They piled into his small Fiat and raced towards the temple.
‘My men are already there,’ the agent said, trying to distract Sorokin from his maniacal driving. ‘They’ll meet us in the car park.’ He had covered the short distance in minutes and pulled up behind the tourist coaches.
‘Please stay here,’ said Sorokin, turning to the two priests in the back. ‘I’ll find out what’s happening.’
Frumentius stared at the temple in front of him and watched the beams of light glide and come to rest on a tall obelisk; its point facing the night sky like a gigantic transmitter sending prayers to the gods. His hands began to sweat: the obelisk reminded him of Axum. Closing his eyes, he began to pray. He could hear his brother whisper in his ear, ‘You will know when you are getting close; you will feel it in your soul ...’ Frumentius was trembling.
‘Are you alright?’ Habakkuk asked, looking anxiously at the priest in the seat next to him. Frumentius didn’t appear to have heard him.
Sorokin hurried back to the car. ‘What’s going on?’ Habakkuk asked, impatiently winding down the window.
‘There’s a lot of confusion, but we do have a gun battle – right there. You can hear it,’ Sorokin explained, pointing towards the temple. ‘The word is, the Defender of the Faith is trapped inside ...’ he added calmly. ‘That’s all I know – for now.’
‘That’s enough!’ Frumentius cried out and opened the car door.
‘Where are you going?’ Habakkuk asked, trying to stop him. ‘Wait!’
Frumentius did not seem to hear him and ran past the seated spectators towards the illumined temple wall.
The enthralled spectators, who had thought the gunfire was part of the show, realised something was wrong when the forecourt was suddenly lit up from above. The panic began in earnest when heavily armed men in black combat fatigues and balaclavas started darting from cover to cover along the temple wall.
There was screaming and the exchange of gunfire almost drowned out the voice booming from the loudspeakers.
‘Tabot Musa,’ Frumentius repeated to himself over and over, ‘I know you are here,’ as he kept running towards the light, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around him.
93
Omar’s bodyguards had been well trained. Using every bit of available cover, they moved quickly and without fear firing at targets they couldn’t see, relying on instinct and lightning reflexes. Despite their precarious position, trapped inside the temple, they were pinning down their invisible attackers and had wounded two commandos, one seriously.
‘Where’s Omar?’ Carrington asked, trying to keep his head down.
‘I don’t know, but he can’t get far,’ Haddad replied. The furious shooting continued until one of the two machine guns fell silent. The soldier lying on the ledge opposite turned around and gave Haddad the thumbs up.
‘One down, one to go,’ muttered Haddad, ‘That’s more like it.’
Omar moved on all fours towards a small gap in the wall; he knew the temple layout intimately and had managed to crawl away. Now to somehow make it back to the tunnel, he thought. He could see dark shapes moving towards him from all directions and pressed himself flat against the face of Amun-Ra carved into the temple wall behind him.
‘When the pharaoh died,’ boomed the narrator, ‘his body was prepared for its journey into eternity ...’ The lights changed colour, illuminating a different part of the temple. ‘The spells were important and would ensure a safe passage into the afterlife ...’
Carrington climbed carefully down the rope ladder and hurried after Haddad.
‘They’ve spotted him on the other side,’ explained the police chief, pointing excitedly to the southern end of the temple. ‘Come, this way!’
For a moment, Omar watched as the bright finger of blue light moved slowly down the stone wall. Holding his breath, he pressed the precious tablet to his chest. The accusing beam stopped a few metres above his head, crept a little to the left and then changed colour.
‘Before he was allowed to enter the world of Osiris,’ the narrator’s voice continued, ‘the pharaoh had to pass one final test: the weighing of his heart ...’ Omar stared at the light quivering above him and stood perfectly still. The light – this time red – began to follow the outline of the giant effigy of Osiris, god of the underworld, carved into the temple wall behind him. Omar crouched next to the open jaws of the monster Anmut – another part of the judgement scene – waiting to devour the treacherous heart of the impure. Omar wanted to move, but his legs wouldn’t obey. As the light came closer, so did the jaws of the monster.
‘To pass the ultimate test, the king’s heart had to be placed on a pair of scales held by the god Anubis. The heart was to be weighed against Ma’at, the feather of truth ...’
As the beam of light reached the feet of the god, a second beam – white and blinding – exploded out of the darkness. There, caught in brilliant white light, was Omar’s face.
‘This is the end of the road, Omar!’ Haddad roared. ‘Raise your hands above your head.’ Omar stood motionless and shielded his eyes from the glare with one hand. The other clutched the tablet tightly against his chest. He couldn’t see the gun barrels pointing at his heart, nor could he see Haddad, but he could hear the words from the man in the forecourt with a megaphone in his hand.
Machine gun fire erupted from above. Omar’s second bodyguard, still alive, had managed to climb to the top of the temple wall
just above Omar. The commandos responded instantly, blowing away the gunman’s face and the back of his head. He fell from the wall – robes flapping like a prayer flag – and hit the ground at Omar’s feet. Horrified, the crowd began to scream.
Haddad felt a jab of searing pain and reached for his shoulder where one of the stray bullets had ripped away part of his sleeve.
‘You’ve been shot,’ Carrington yelled, pulling out his handkerchief. ‘Give me that.’ He tried to wrench the megaphone out of Haddad’s hand.
‘It’s nothing,’ Haddad shouted, not letting go. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
‘At least let me ...’ Carrington attempted to stem the flow of blood with his handkerchief.
‘You will not see the woman alive, unless you do as I say,’ Omar shouted back, playing his last card.
‘Get Jana, now!’ ordered Haddad, turning to the police chief standing behind him. ‘Hurry!’
‘You are wrong again,’ Haddad replied, playing for time. ‘I’ve just seen her – buried alive in a tomb ...’
A flicker of doubt flashed across Omar’s face. It can’t be. He’s bluffing, he thought, yet ... he knows!
‘I don’t believe you,’ he thundered. ‘She will die unless you do as I say. I am the Defender of the Faith.’ Omar raised his right hand, trying to hold back the inevitable.
‘Just look at this pretend prophet in his blood-splattered jalabiya’ said the police chief, as he stared at Omar, the tablet pressed against his chest and the bullet-riddled body of a young martyr at his feet.
Haddad smiled, turned around and pointed over his shoulder towards the river.
‘If you don’t believe me, then see for yourself,’ he said. ‘Here she comes now.’
Omar stared towards the river. He saw someone walking slowly towards him, head to toe in a black chador.
‘This is a trick,’ he said to himself, without taking his eyes off the tall, dark figure approaching. ‘It must be!’
Haddad hurried towards Jana and took her by the hand.
‘For the last time, Omar – here, look!’
‘Thank you, Jana,’ whispered Haddad, folding back her headscarf to expose Jana’s face. ‘This is for Elizabeth and Isabella,’ he called out, turning towards Carrington standing next to him.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Jana said.
‘It’s nothing.’
Haddad turned towards Omar. ‘It’s over!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve failed!’
Omar stared at the woman standing next to Haddad in the circle of bright light. Recognition brought despair. Surrender was unthinkable, so was defeat.
Still clutching the tablet with his left hand, Omar reached under his robe with his right. A commando, thinking he was going for a weapon, shot him through the hand; Omar fell to his knees. The tablet crashed to the floor beside him. He was bleeding profusely, but still tried to get up. He almost managed to stagger to his feet, but lost his balance and fell back on his knees. Then, almost in slow motion, Haddad thought, Omar reached into the folds of his jalabiya with his shattered right hand and pulled out a black, egg-shaped object.
‘It’s a grenade,’ Haddad warned. ‘Get down!’
Omar lowered his head and pulled the pin with his teeth. Staring longingly at the tablet in front of him, he mustered all of his remaining strength, spat out the pin and shouted: ‘Allah akbar’. Moments later, a hail of bullets ripped his chest apart.
‘No-o-o-o-o-o!’ cried Frumentius waving his arms as he jumped over the barricades and ran to Omar. Caught in the crossfire several times in the back, he staggered forward and collapsed.
With his last strength he crawled forward. ‘Tabot Musa,’ he groaned, his eyes turning glassy. As the tips of his fingers touched the tablet, the grenade exploded, blowing away his trembling hand.
PART V
‘THE CONSUMMATION OF HEARTS’ DESIRE…’
Wolfram von Eschenbach – Parzival
Paris; 17 March 1314
With a candle in his right hand, the Dominican followed the gaoler into the dungeons. This would be his last opportunity to question the prisoner before sentencing in the morning.
Jacques de Molay, last Grand Master of The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, was lying on the floor of his dark cell. The rats scurrying through the rotting straw of his bedding foiled his attempts to pray when the iron-studded oak door creaked open. Fra. Jacques sat up, awkwardly moving his chains and trying to shield his eyes from the bright light.
‘Jacques de Molay, his Holiness wants more answers,’ announced the Dominican and stepped into the cone of light creeping across the wet floor. ‘He has my confession; what more does he want?’ asked the prisoner.
‘We’re not interested in your confession. I have a quite different subject in mind.’
‘What?’
‘The Black Emperor and his holy relic,’ whispered the Dominican. ‘You know all about it, don’t you?’ he said. ‘And now,’ he continued, leaning over the prisoner, ‘you will tell me all you know.’
‘I have nothing to tell you. Leave me in peace.’ Fra. Jacques slumped back into the filthy straw.
‘You know I cannot do that,’ answered the Dominican.
Fra. Jacques did not reply.
‘Persuasion again – so be it. Take him!’ shouted the Dominican. Two men, their faces concealed under black hoods, stepped out of the shadows, unshackled the prisoner and dragged him out of the cell.
The chamber, dark and musty, was lit by torches wedged into iron rings along the massive stone walls. Droplets of water glistened on the high, vaulted ceiling like tears of futile compassion unable to soften the hearts of brutal men. Two men in leather aprons stoked the flames of the fire in a large stone fireplace. And a monk sat at a wooden table in the corner, ready to record the questions and the answers. He reached for his quill and began to sharpen the tip with a knife.
The Dominican pointed to the rack. Fra. Jacques was stripped naked and strapped face down to an iron frame on four legs standing in the middle of the chamber.
‘Let us begin.’ The Dominican’s shaved pate glistened with sweat.
‘Your knights accompanied Prince Lalibela from Jerusalem to his homeland in 1185 – is that right?’
Fra. Jacques did not respond.
‘I see you are already familiar with our little wedges,’ the Dominican said, noting the prisoner’s deformed nails and fingertips. Driving small wooden wedges under the fingernails had been one of his more persuasive interrogation tools but he knew memory of pain was often far more effective than singed flesh; it could be as powerful as pain itself. He had broken teeth out of the jaw and prodded the exposed nerve with a hot iron to some effect, but this time the Dominican had something quite different in mind. He pointed to the fire.
A hooded man pulled an iron poker from the flames, its yellow-red tip angry in the gloom. The torture master placed the glowing tip near the prisoner’s face, allowing the savage heat to deliver its warning. Slowly, the Dominican repeated the question. Once again, there was no answer. Walking towards the spreadeagled prisoner, he pointed to his lower back. With the poker held firmly in gloved hands, the torture master let the glowing tip almost touch the prisoner’s back; the exposed skin blistered in silent reply.
‘What’s your answer?’ whispered the Dominican. Fra. Jacques still did not respond. The Dominican nodded. The torture master allowed the glowing tip of the poker to rest against the prisoner’s skin. Slowly he applied pressure. The prisoner screamed as the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air. The Dominican nodded again and the poker was removed. ‘Answer me!’
‘Yes,’ groaned the prisoner.
‘You see, we begin to understand each other. Now, helping Prince Lalibela to the throne was not the main reason the knights accompanied him to his homeland – yes?’
The prisoner nodded.
‘I take it you agree.’
The prisoner nodded again.
‘What was the real purpose of their
mission?’ There was no reply. The Dominican nodded at the torture master. The glowing iron was applied again and held until the prisoner’s eyes rolled back and his screams turned into a choking gurgle.
‘We both know where this is heading,’ said the Dominican, leaning over the prisoner. ‘It is ultimately pointless to resist.’
‘Lalibela ...’ Fra. Jacques whispered, ‘he was many years in exile in the Holy Land.’ Tears ran down his face. ‘He befriended the knights stationed there.’
‘Go on.’
‘He wanted their help to depose his brother, the king.’ Fra. Jacques began to choke.
‘There’s no stopping now!’ the Dominican shouted. ‘Go on!’
‘He ... he told them a secret.’
‘What secret?’ asked the Dominican.
‘Lalibela told the knights that ...’ The prisoner choked again. ‘Water,’ he groaned and a sip of putrid water was poured down his throat, on which he almost choked again.
‘What was the secret?’
‘The most sacred relic in the world ... from Jerusalem ... it was taken to his country a long time ago and ...’
‘And?’ demanded the Dominican.
‘And ... was ... still ... there!’
‘What relic?’
‘The Ark ... the Holy Ark ... of ... the Covenant.’
The Dominican walked across to the scribe to check the last answer had been recorded perfectly.
‘Then? Then what happened to those knights? They stayed on after Lalibela, is that right?’ The prisoner nodded. ‘And over the years there were new arrivals from the Holy Land, is that right?’ he asked, coming closer to the topic of real interest.
Again, the prisoner nodded.
‘They stayed because there was a plan,’ the Dominican continued, raising his voice, ‘a plan implemented during your stewardship. That’s correct, isn’t it?’ Once again, the prisoner did not reply. ‘I didn’t hear your answer.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 39
