‘I don’t know what you speak of,’ croaked Fra. Jacques.
‘Bring the brazier,’ shouted the Dominican, becoming agitated. The torture master began to shovel burning charcoal into an iron brazier while his assistant poured oil over the prisoner’s feet and rubbed it into the skin with a rag.
‘Let it begin,’ ordered the Dominican. Leaning forward, the torture master positioned the brazier. The flesh of the prisoner’s feet began to sizzle like a spit roast. This was one of the most devilish of all the Inquisition’s tortures. Many had gone mad through this so the Dominican had to choose the fine line between ultimate pain and death. He also knew it was his last chance to get the answers he needed. ‘The plan, tell me about the plan,’ he raged as the oil drips from Fra. Jacques’ feet fanned the flames.
‘The plan,’ screamed the prisoner, ‘was ...’ He stopped mid-sentence and was suddenly quite still.
The Dominican pulled the brazier away, afraid he had gone too far. ‘Water,’ he shouted. A bucket of water was poured over the prisoner’s head.
‘The plan, you wretch, what was it?’
‘To bring the Ark back to France,’ moaned the prisoner.
‘And you mean to steal away with it, don’t you? And that’s precisely what happened.’
The prisoner nodded.
‘Where is it now?’ asked the Dominican, though he knew the answer. Surprising how many still lie under these circumstances, he thought.
‘The Ark was left behind ... the knights were killed ... by the Emperor’s men.’
‘Where?’ asked the Dominican, wiping his hot face with his sleeve.
‘Egypt.’
The Dominican smiled; the Grand Master was telling the truth.
‘But before they were killed the knights removed something from the Ark – yes?’
The prisoner nodded and then screamed again.
‘Let me help you,’ the Dominican said, relieved to see the prisoner was still conscious. ‘The knights removed the tablets,’ he whispered into the prisoner’s ear, ‘before they were put to the sword, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes,’ groaned the prisoner. The Dominican took a deep breath; he was almost there.
‘Where are the tablets now?’ he whispered suggestively into the prisoner’s ear. ‘Tell me and the pain will stop.’ There was no answer. ‘Where are they?’ roared the Dominican, pushing the brazier back under the prisoner’s feet.
‘You will never know!’ shouted the Grand Master. The Dominican pulled the prisoner’s head towards him by the hair.
‘Tell me, you wretch.’
‘They are safe.’
‘Where? Tell me!’
‘Never! All has been recorded for those who come after us; for those who are worthy. The tablets will decide when to show themselves. But your filthy Pope and your corrupt king will never find them. Never! I curse them both; may they appear before the Good Lord for judgement – soon!’ For an instant, a smile illuminated the Grand Master’s wan face, then his body went limp.
The interrogation over, the Dominican let go of the prisoner’s hair.
The next morning, Fra. Jacques de Molay – last Grand Master of the Templars – unexpectedly recanted his earlier confession and was burnt alive on an island in the Seine. Within a month, Pope Clement V was dead and King Philip of France followed him by autumn. Philip’s three sons all died young. Fra. Jacques’ curse had become reality.
94
‘I knew I’d find you here,’ Carrington said, walking past the dozing guards into Haddad’s command centre. ‘I couldn’t sleep either.’ He took off his hat and threw it on the table.
‘Omar’s been positively identified; it’s definitely him. The Defender of the Faith is dead!’ announced an elated Haddad. ‘We’ve done it, my friend. But look at this, Marcus, you’ll find it interesting.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The passport we found on the mysterious black man who tried to stop Omar.’
Carrington instantly recognised the crest. ‘A Vatican passport?’
‘We don’t see too many around here I can tell you, but it is. It belongs to a Monsignor Frumentius Mariam Selassie ... born in – Axum, Ethiopia,’ Haddad explained, leafing through the document. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen him before?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘According to this boarding pass here, he flew into Cairo from Rome the same day you did. He was actually on your flight.’
‘Where does he fit into all this?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. We’ll advise the Vatican later today.’
Carrington looked glum. Haddad put his arm affectionately around his friend’s shoulder. ‘If you want to be successful in the Orient, Marcus, you have to learn to hide your true feelings a little better. I can read you like the proverbial book,’ Haddad joked.
‘You can?’
‘You’re itching to ask about the tablet, right?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Plain.’
‘Since you appear to know my innermost thoughts, can you put this pathetically transparent Westerner out of his misery and just tell me?’ Carrington sighed. ‘Is there anything left, anything at all?’
‘Yes. The artefact broke into several pieces during the explosion. The forensics guys have retrieved them ...’
‘Could I ...’
‘Perhaps later, Marcus. I’ve already notified Professor Khalil; it’s technically her jurisdiction.’
Carrington’s face sank. ‘What did she say?’
‘I got the impression she would have gladly swum up river all the way from Cairo, dodging hippos and crocodiles just for a glimpse ...’
‘I bet.’
‘But the Air Force came to the rescue once again. She’ll be here later today. You’ll get your chance then, I promise.’
‘You always have the right answer, don’t you,’ Carrington said, massaging his temples. He was trying to ease the dull headache that had kept him awake all night.
‘There’s someone here who wants to say hello,’ Haddad said casually.
‘Who?’
‘See for yourself.’ Haddad pointed to the door behind his desk. ‘In there.’
Carrington opened the door and peered inside. The room seemed empty apart from a sofa and a wooden chair. In the gloom, Carrington could just make out the shape of a man lying on the sofa, with his long legs folded over the armrest and his head propped up on a duffel bag. Carrington walked into the room and almost fell over a pair of boots. The man on the sofa stirred, turned his head towards the door and opened his eyes.
‘Jack?’ asked Carrington, looking stunned. ‘Is that you? What are you doing here?’
‘I got sick of trout fishing, mate.’ Jack rubbed his stiff neck and sat up.
Carrington walked over to the window and opened the blinds. ‘I don’t believe it. How on earth did you get here so fast?’
‘It wasn’t by camel express, I can tell you. Baksheesh, me boy,’ replied Jack, rubbing his fingers together. ‘Lots of it. I hopped on the last plane out of Cairo and got myself almost arrested at the airport here, asking for you. If it hadn’t been for your mate over there, I’d be in jail for sure.’ Jack pointed to Haddad standing in the doorway. ‘I hope there’s a good story in all this, Marcus, that’s all I can say. I’ve spent my last advance just getting here, not to mention risking my neck ...’
‘How are you?’
‘Right now, between fortunes, I’d say.’
‘How come? I thought the Swiss Holocaust gold story would keep you going for a while ...’
‘No such luck. With so much at stake, the big boys are digging in; the whole thing is getting bogged down. And with the Newman trial up in smoke, the papers are losing interest. That’s freelance journalism for you.’
‘Never mind. Perhaps there’s a new story for you right here.’ Carrington sat down next to Jack and slapped him on the back. ‘You bloody rascal; you saved Jana’s life, y
ou know.’
Jack grinned at Carrington. ‘She’s all right then. Well, that’s something, I suppose. Do you reckon I’m back in the good books?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘She’s here?’
‘Follow me.’
Carrington led Jack down a narrow flight of stairs to a room at the back of the police station. ‘In there,’ he said, knocking on the door.
‘Come in,’ replied a faint voice from inside.
‘She’s still a little weak,’ said Carrington opening the door. ‘Been through a lot,’ he added quietly. ‘There’s someone here to see you, Jana.’
‘Oh? Who?’ asked Jana, squinting at Carrington standing in the doorway.
‘A white knight from New Zealand.’ Carrington stepped aside to let Jack enter. Then he moved outside and closed the door behind Jack.
The tiny, white-washed room looked like a prison cell with heavy iron bars on the window. Apart from a mattress on the wooden floor and a cane chair, the room was empty save for Jana and the insects circling the dusty light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Jana was sitting in the chair facing the window, still wearing the black robe given to her by her captors. She looks like a nun, uncertain whether to take her vows or walk away from God, Jack thought. She appeared to have aged; her cheekbones, more prominent than usual, gave her a haunted look.
‘Planning to join a monastery?’ asked Jack, shaking his head, ‘I thought this was a Muslim country. And you keep complaining about my wardrobe; really. You should look at yourself.’
‘Jack?’ Jana began to struggle out of her chair, a crooked smile lighting up her pale face, ‘is that really you?’ She held out her arms. ‘Help me?’
‘You need fattening up, kiddo. Desert tucker must be crap,’ said Jack, running his hand down Jana’s back. ‘You’re skin and bones.’
‘Thanks, Jack,’ whispered Jana, thrilled to have Jack’s familiar humour and comforting embrace. ‘You really know how to cheer a girl up.’
‘One of my many talents. What on earth happened?’ Jack wiped away the tears streaming down Jana’s face with the tips of his fingers. ‘That bad – eh?’
‘You really do want to know, don’t you! Got a hanky?’
Jack pulled a crumpled blue checked handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘It’s done a few miles, I’m afraid,’ he said, handing it to Jana. Jana blew her nose.
‘Am I forgiven?’
Jana looked at Jack with teary eyes. ‘Yes, but you definitely need a new hanky.’
95
As the Cardinal finished addressing the deputation from Argentina his secretary discreetly handed him a note. Frumentius is dead. The Cardinal slipped the note into his pocket and excused himself. Two reports from Egypt were waiting for him in his study. The official one was from the Egyptian authorities in Luxor, informing the Vatican that Monsignor Frumentius Mariam Selassie had been killed in a terrorist attack. The other, from Father Habakkuk, was a more candid and detailed account. It concluded: The tablet was obliterated in the explosion; Rome is not implicated.
How fortuitous, thought the Cardinal, the long search is finally over; the danger has passed. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bundle of papers tied in purple ribbon. He had painstakingly assembled this collection over years. All came from the secret archives of the Inquisition and on top was one he knew almost by heart – the confession of Jacques de Molay. Smiling, the Cardinal pushed it aside and began leafing through for the paper – a rubbing of the Diderot Tablet, as it was known in the Vatican – purchased from Abbé Diderot in 1896.
For centuries, the Church knew about the possible existence of the legendary Ark of the Covenant and the lost Tablets of Moses. But more recently, thanks to the enterprising Diderot, it had also been aware of what was written on one of the tablets ... and the devastating consequences should that knowledge ever find its way into the public domain.
‘There is only one God.’ read the Cardinal. ‘His name ...’ The faded lines had him staring until his eyes watered. Did it really all begin with the Egyptians? Was the whole idea of one, all powerful god an inspired Egyptian invention? What if Moses was an Egyptian priest – a sorcerer even – worshipping an Egyptian god? How could the Church ever explain that, or try to reconcile it with the Old Testament? It was up to men like him to ensure that it never came to that – whatever the cost.
With Krakowski’s Second Violin Concerto booming out of the stereo, the Cardinal walked over to the window overlooking the dome of St Peter’s. To him, this music would somehow always epitomise the quest for the missing tablets.
But the Diderot Tablet itself had never surfaced. Diderot’s mysterious death before he could finally hand it over to the Vatican, meant any knowledge of its whereabouts went with him to his grave. He went to that grave as a man unshriven; the priest refused him absolution on his deathbed. The tablet had simply vanished. And the Vatican secured the documents; money had bought silence.
The search by the Germans during the War – secretly encouraged by the Holy See – had located the remaining Templar archives buried in the ruins of Montsegur, but not the Diderot Tablet. Historians had generally believed that the Templar archives had escaped the net of Pope Clement V with the Templar fleet which slipped out of La Rochelle in 1307, never to be heard of again. In fact, the archives had been hidden by the last Grand Master – Jacques du Molay – in Montsegur before the seneschals of King Philip threw him in irons on Friday 13 October 1307 – the original Black Friday. Thanks to the Cardinal’s close friendship with Newman, those records were now safely locked away in the secret archives of the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith.
The Templar Tablet, as the Cardinal liked to call it, had now been destroyed. Frumentius, the only other person in Vatican circles apart from Habakkuk and himself who knew all the facts, was dead.
While Frumentius’ uncompromising allegiance to the interests of Ethiopia had been a problem for decades, Habakkuk’s loyalty to the Church was beyond question. The claim by the Ethiopian clergy that the original Ark of the Covenant was in Axum had never been taken seriously by historians. In any event, without the tablets, the Ark – even if it did exist – thought the Cardinal, was not a threat. He was satisfied that the Church’s position was safe again at last. The Cardinal smiled; the difficult task begun by his predecessors so long ago had been completed. The Pontiff would be pleased.
When the last note of the concerto sounded, the Cardinal gathered the documents and sorted them – arranging them carefully in chronological order. He tied the purple ribbon tightly around the parcel and rang for his secretary.
‘Return this to our archives immediately,’ said the Cardinal, placing the bundle into a leather pouch. ‘An important chapter in the history of Mother Church has been closed today.’
‘Jahwohl, Eminenz,’ replied the secretary and left the room.
96
‘You two amaze me,’ said Professor Khalil, storming into Haddad’s office. She lit a cigarette and pulled up a chair next to Carrington. ‘This puzzle has been around for seven hundred years and in walks a pair of self-appointed “Ark-eologists” and it’s solved in a few days. So much for scholarship; I desperately need guys like you on my staff. Interested?’
‘In that case, you should offer him a job as well,’ said Carrington, pointing to Jack leaning against the windowsill.
‘Oh? Who’s that?’ asked Professor Khalil, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’m Jack Rogan, the journalist who tracked down your Dr Hudson in the wilds of New Zealand ...’ replied Jack. He stepped forward and extended his hand.
‘You make quite a team, you three,’ Professor Khalil said, laughing, and shook Jack’s hand.
‘It’s official; Omar is dead,’ Haddad explained.
Professor Khalil looked at him silently for a few moments. ‘And the relic?’ she asked quietly after a while.
‘Broken into seven pieces, I believe.’
‘No one touched them? No ea
ger little police fingers tampering with the evidence?’
‘No, we did just as you asked,’ Haddad reassured her. ‘We tried to piece them together to make sure we had all the bits before the bodies were taken away, that’s all.’
The professor raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘See for yourself. They’re bringing it all up now.’
Professor Khalil exhaled noisily and, obviously relieved, smiled at the man who had just entered the room bearing a large wooden tray covered with coarse sackcloth. Haddad pointed to his desk. ‘There.’
‘Well, gentlemen, this appears to be it,’ announced the professor. ‘Marcus, would you please do the honours and lift the veil, so to speak?’
‘As you wish.’ Carrington walked over to the desk and carefully folded back the cloth. Illuminated by the morning sun shining into the room, the fragments on the tray began to glow. The rays of Aten, thought Carrington, staring at the relic in awe, reaching out of the past like a celestial spotlight. The fragments on Haddad’s desk looked just as Krakowski had described them in his strange telephone conversation with Carrington – bluish, sapphire-like and covered in exquisite hieroglyphs.
The forgotten cigarette between Professor Khalil’s fingers turned into a column of ash and dropped unnoticed to the floor.
‘Gentlemen, this is history,’ she said quietly, her voice hoarse. She bent over the fragments and pointed to the first hieroglyph – a tiny owl – in the top left hand corner.
‘What does it say?’ Jack asked.
‘There is only one God,’ Professor Khalil began haltingly, running her trembling fingertips along the beautiful inscription. Then she paused, staring intently at the next group of characters. ‘His name is ...’ Pausing again, she bent down lower for a closer look. ‘His name is ...’
‘Yes?’ Carrington’s voice was tense.
‘ATEN.’ The professor lit another cigarette and glanced at Carrington. ‘This is obviously from the Amarna period – but one of the Tablets of Moses? Come on! It doesn’t fit, admit it.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 40
