‘What? Are you serious? Why?’
‘Politics and money. Quickly, listen, I’ll tell you why.’
The engine noise inside the plane was deafening. The few seats in the sparse cabin were held together with duct tape and from the ceiling, wires and cables dangled like cold spaghetti. The Guardian sat in the back next to his brother’s simple coffin. Secured to the floor with cargo nets, the coffin looked like a dead spider caught inside its own web. Jack was wedged between Jana and Professor Khalil in the front and Carrington squeezed into the seat behind them. The flight to Axum would take several hours, announced the pilot, and they would follow a flight path across the Arabian and Nubian Deserts.
‘You said yesterday, Father, that you’re the Guardian’s assistant,’ Carrington said to Habakkuk sitting next to him, ‘yet you travel on a Vatican passport?’
‘I worked in Rome for many years, just like the Guardian’s brother, before returning to Ethiopia,’ explained Habakkuk. ‘I continued my research there.’
‘Into the disappearance of the tablets, I take it?’
‘Quite. I’ve written a book about the Kebra Nagast ...’
‘The Glory of Kings,’ interjected Carrington, ‘I’m familiar with it.’
‘And several articles on King Lalibela and the Templars,’ added Habakkuk.
‘Legend or fact, what do you think?’ asked Carrington.
‘Well, with all that has happened recently, the scales of probability have tipped considerably in favour of fact, wouldn’t you say?’
‘The Church in Rome has of course been very interested in all this for quite a long time,’ interrupted Jack, turning around. ‘Certainly from the thirteenth century onwards, but especially since the discovery of the Diderot manuscripts ...’
‘And understandably so,’ added Carrington. ‘It’s ... well, it’s dramatic isn’t it, if one considers those hieroglyphs and what’s actually written on the tablets ... almost unthinkable consequences.’ Carrington watched Habakkuk intently.
‘Don’t you think the Vatican would be desperate to get its hands on what we appear to have right here – and make that box disappear?’ asked Jack.
Habakkuk did not reply. Jack and Carrington had, unwittingly, he thought, come too close to the truth.
‘Something puzzles me,’ continued Carrington, looking out the window. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Father?
‘I think I know where this is heading,’ Habakkuk interrupted quietly. ‘Let me pre-empt your question and tell you something about myself.’
‘Please do.’
‘As a young man, I spent several years with the Guardian’s brother in Rome. We were cataloguing the archives of the Inquisition. Both of us worked for Cardinal Brandauer, who was – still is – particularly passionate about this subject. We were convinced that the key to the whereabouts of the tablets – should they still exist – rested with the Templars. And as it turned out, we were certainly looking in the right place, don’t you agree? But things became very complicated.’
‘In what way?’
‘Let’s just say we had differences of opinion. We could no longer work together and I returned to Ethiopia. That was many years ago.’
‘May I ask why?’
Habakkuk stared out the window. Searching for the right answer, he was watching the endlessly shifting patterns in the sea of sand below. ‘I disapproved of his methods ... Brother Frumentius and the Cardinal believed that the end justified the means. One should not speak ill of the dead, but Brother Frumentius seemed to have forgotten why we had embarked on the search in the first place. And, most importantly, his loyalties appeared to have changed ...’
‘Oh?’
Habakkuk began to fidget in his seat. ‘He had lost sight of ...’
‘Yes?’
‘The Ark, what it stands for, what it means to our culture, our country, our people.’
‘In what way?’ asked Carrington.
‘He abandoned his allegiance to his brother, the Guardian, and transferred it to the interests of the Church in Rome,’ Habakkuk explained. He knew that the best lie was always the one closest to the truth. By simply reversing roles and putting Frumentius’ position as his own, Habakkuk had come up with a plausible explanation.
‘But you arrived together from Rome just the other day, did you not? How ...?’ Carrington asked.
‘Does that fit? interrupted Habakkuk. ‘The Guardian sent me there – to talk to his brother.’
‘Oh – may I ask about what?’
‘I was sent to remind him ...’ Habakkuk stopped in mid-sentence.
‘Remind him of what?’ pressed Carrington.
‘Of his duty. I tried to turn him back ...’
‘Did he listen to you?’
‘I’m not sure. But it no longer matters, does it?’
‘And your loyalties, Father, where do they stand? I need to know.’
Habakkuk turned around and pointed to the old man sitting at the back. ‘With that man over there,’ he lied, ‘and what he stands for.’ Carrington wasn’t convinced. He could hear Haddad’s warning ringing in his ears: ‘Be careful, Marcus, watch the black priest ...’
‘I have a surprise for you,’ announced Habakkuk, walking down the aisle. ‘The Guardian has asked the pilot to make a little detour. If you look out of the widows on the port side – the left here – you will soon see something very interesting.’ The sound of the engines changed and the plane began to descend.
‘What are we looking for?’ Jana asked, turning towards her window.
‘Mount Sinai ...’ answered Habakkuk. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a forbidding peak, ‘is Mount Saint Catherine, the highest mountain in Egypt. We are now getting very close.’
The high-pitched voice of the Guardian interrupted Habakkuk. The only words Carrington could understand were Gebel Musa, the mountain of Moses, and it all sounded like a cry for help.
‘The Guardian asks if you would permit him to hold the tablet,’ translated Habakkuk, leaning across to Carrington, ‘just for a moment, while we fly over the sacred mountain.’ Carrington handed him the box and Habakkuk carried it carefully to the back. The plane made a sharp turn to port. ‘We are now directly above Mount Sinai,’ Habakkuk pointed out, ‘there – you can see the stone chapel next to the small mosque on the top, and the monastery of St Catherine in the valley below.’
Everyone, except the Guardian, looked out the windows as the plane circled the famous mountain. Carrington glanced towards the back. The Guardian sat motionless in his seat. He held the wooden box resting on his lap with one hand, and his brother’s coffin with the other. Only his lips moved in silent prayer.
‘Look – there,’ Carrington said, tapping Jana on the shoulder, ‘a true mystic communicating with his God and the dead – amazing.’
When they landed in Axum it was already dark. Monks from the monastery were waiting at the airstrip and took them to their lodgings – a drab breeze-block building next to the Cathedral of St Mary of Zion.
‘I’m sure you will be comfortable here,’ said Habakkuk, showing them into simple, whitewashed rooms. ‘About tomorrow ... Maestro Krakowski and Dr Rosen are due to arrive from Addis Ababa in the afternoon, I believe,’ Habakkuk explained, ‘and the Guardian would like to meet you all in the Cathedral tomorrow evening after dark.
101
‘What’s that?’ asked Haddad, pointing to the parcel on his desk.
‘The airport CCTV tapes,’ answered his assistant. ‘Just arrived from Cairo by courier.’
‘Late as usual.’ Haddad broke open the parcel and walked across to the TV. ‘Let’s have a look.’ The tapes showed new arrivals going through passport control, clearing customs and collecting luggage at Cairo airport. Haddad had requisitioned the tapes of Carrington’s return flight from Rome. He reached for the passenger list, and pressed the fast forward button. A blur of shapes and faces raced across the screen like confused genies trying to get back into the bottl
e. The passenger list confirmed that Monsignor Frumentius and Father Habakkuk had both been on Carrington’s flight.
Each time he saw a black face, Haddad stopped the recorder. Here they are, he thought, winding back the tape: Two black men in suits presenting their passports at the counter. Haddad recognised Frumentius, and Habakkuk, who appeared to be talking to a tall man standing behind him in the queue. At first, Haddad didn’t pay any attention to this, but when the same tall man was standing next to Habakkuk at the baggage carousel later, Haddad sensed something worth watching. As he played the tape frame by frame, a snapshot captured the face of the tall stranger front on. Haddad froze. ‘It can’t be!’ he cried out, staring at the screen. Then, taking a deep breath to calm himself, he reached for the phone.
102
Splashing muddy water in all directions every time one of its wheels hit a pothole, the vintage DC3 shuddered to an abrupt halt. A small boy ran past Carrington and pushed wooden chocks under the wheels.
Krakowski looked like a movie star in his white linen suit, dark glasses and Panama hat. He could have stepped straight out of an Agatha Christie thriller, thought Marcus, and the only thing missing was the bow tie.
‘This is one of those, Dr-Livingstone-I-presume moments,’ Krakowski joked, embracing Carrington. ‘We do meet in the strangest places.’
‘And I almost called you Hercule,’ Carrington replied, laughing.
‘You’re right, he does remind you of Poirot,’ Dr Rosen cut in, kissing Carrington on the cheek. ‘A slightly slimmer version, but only just.’
‘Good to see you both,’ Carrington said.
‘Without Bettany we wouldn’t be here, I can tell you,’ explained Krakowski.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you been to Addis Ababa lately?’ Krakowski sighed. ‘Lucky for us, Bettany here got a celebrity welcome and the authorities cut through all the red tape; didn’t even open our luggage. I just sailed through next to her. Without that ... I really wonder. Most of the other passengers are still being interrogated by the military.’
‘Celebrity reception? How come?’
‘Apparently half the population here owes her ...’
‘Owes her? What?’
‘Eyesight.’
‘Of course! You’ve been here before,’ Carrington remembered, helping them with their luggage.
‘Take good care of that, Marcus,’ Krakowski said, handing Carrington a leather portmanteau, ‘there’s something rather precious in there.’
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ Carrington said excitedly, running his hand over the smooth leather.
‘Where are we going, Marcus?’ asked Dr Rosen.
‘We’re staying in a monastery,’ Carrington replied, ‘with working monks. It’s quite an experience, I warn you, but very original. The others are waiting for you there; we couldn’t all fit in the limousine, you see.’ Carrington pointed to a dusty Land Rover with no doors.
‘What’s that?’ asked Krakowski, looking confused.
‘Your taxi. Cheer up, Ben. When was the last time you were picked up at a remote airstrip and driven to an old monastery to stay the night, eh?’
‘What about the Ark, Marcus?’ enquired Dr Rosen, handing her bag to one of the waiting monks. ‘Have you found out anything more about it?’
Carrington shook his head. ‘The Guardian will meet us in the cathedral tonight. I expect we’ll hear it all then.’
‘Good. I can only spare a day or two. I have a concert in London on Saturday, I’m afraid,’ Krakowski said, wiping his neck with a handkerchief. ‘Full house.’
‘Relax, Ben. You’re not turning into a musical conveyer belt, now, are you?’ Carrington joked, winking at Dr Rosen.
Patting Krakowski affectionately on the arm, Dr Rosen said, ‘Remember what you told me in Rome the other day?’
‘What did I say?’ Krakowski asked, feigning ignorance.
‘There are more important things in life than scalpels and fiddles ...’
‘I said that?’
‘It’s almost time,’ Habakkuk announced, hurrying towards them. ‘Please, come.’
‘It’s built like a fortress,’ Jana observed, pointing to the massive stone walls of the cathedral. ‘It looks more like a medieval castle than a house of God. I suppose, if the Ark is really in there, well ...’
‘It used to be, but not anymore,’ Jack said. ‘Emperor Haile Selassie built a small sanctuary just behind it in the sixties, which is supposed to house the Ark – isn’t that right, Father?’
‘This is the holiest site in Ethiopia,’ Habakkuk explained, sidestepping the question, ‘it has quite a history. The original church was built in the fourth century by the Emperors Shezana and Ezana. They were brothers, the first Christian co-rulers of our country.’
‘And wasn’t it Emperor Ezana who, according to legend, brought the Ark of the Covenant from the island of Tana Kirkos to Axum?’ Krakowski asked.
‘You are well versed in our history, Mr Krakowski,’ Habakkuk replied. ‘The Ark was kept on that island for over eight hundred years.’
‘So you’re planning to become a tour guide here when you retire,’ Jana joked. ‘Are you also learning to speak ...um ...?’
‘Tigrigna,’ interjected Habakkuk, coming to her assistance.
‘Not quite. I’ve read it all just recently in my father’s papers,’ Krakowski said. ‘He was fascinated by this place.’
‘Because of the Ark?’ enquired Professor Khalil.
‘Yes ...’
‘Have you ever actually seen the Ark, Father?’ Krakowski asked, turning to Habakkuk.
‘It is forbidden!’ Habakkuk knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it, but it was too late. Everyone looked stunned.
‘Where does that leave us then?’ Carrington asked, breaking the awkward silence.
‘The Guardian will explain everything. Please, follow me.’
The flames from hundreds of candles lit up the lofty interior of the cathedral. The Guardian was waiting for them in front of the altar, his hands folded in prayer. The pungent scent of frankincense filled the air and apart from two monks holding the incense burners, the church was empty.
This is the moment, Krakowski thought, remembering his grandfather’s wish. He tightened his grip on the leather portmanteau containing the tablet. All the twisted threads of his life were coming together with surprising clarity. For an instant, Krakowski imagined he could see his parents walk hand-in-hand down the aisle beside him, but it was only the shadows of the flickering candles dancing along the walls of the nave.
Habakkuk asked them to line up in front of the altar and face the Guardian, who then addressed them in Tigrigna. His high-pitched voice sounded unfamiliar and strange.
‘The Guardian requests that you place the tablets here in front of him. He would like to bless them,’ Habakkuk translated, pointing to a pair of cushions. Krakowski lifted his tablet out of the portmanteau. Placing it carefully on one of the cushions, he bowed towards the Guardian and stepped back. The tablet began to glow in the candlelight. It’s waiting for its twin, thought Krakowski.
‘Tabot Musa,’ whispered the Guardian, lifting his hands in prayer. Habakkuk motioned to Carrington to step forward. Carrington opened the wooden box and placed it on the second cushion. The fragments had been carefully pieced together by Professor Khalil; the tablet looked almost whole again as if it had healed itself. It too appeared to glow.
‘I welcome you,’ the Guardian continued. ‘My entire life has been devoted to finding the tablets. That search is now over. They have been found and for that we must thank the Lord.’ The Guardian pointed to the cushions in front of him. ‘You have been chosen by the Almighty to return the tablets to where they belong. I am grateful to you – Ethiopia is grateful.’ The Guardian lifted his eyes to the skies, and then paused. ‘For hundreds of years, the Ark stood on this very spot just behind me,’ he said. ‘It survived invasions, fire, wars, and the greed of men. It was only removed
on a few occasions – to protect it. However, before I can continue, it is my solemn duty to ask you to swear an oath that you will not reveal what you are about to learn to anyone ...’
Just what I need, thought Jack, biting his lip.
‘The Guardian will now approach each of you,’ Habakkuk said. ‘If you are prepared to take the oath, please say “I swear” when he places his hand on your shoulder. If you cannot, you will be asked to leave.’
Jana was first in line. The Guardian, a short man, came over and looked up at her. Jana remembered looking into the eyes of another old man not that long ago – ice blue, crystal clear and cruel. But these eyes were hooded, almost transparent and gentle, radiating kindness and compassion. As the old man placed his hand on her shoulder, she felt a warmth that seemed to flow into her whole being.
‘I swear,’ she whispered, barely able to speak, and then smiled at the old man through tears in her eyes. That feeling, thought Jana – it was the same she’d experienced waking up in old Mrs Gonski’s bed as a young teenager on the brink of self-destruction. It was love. When the Guardian moved on, she reached for Carrington’s hand and squeezed it hard. He too could feel the powerful aura radiating from the old man.
How extraordinary, Krakowski thought, watching the Guardian move slowly from Christian to Jew to Muslim. We’ve all just taken an oath of silence to protect two sacred artefacts belonging to humanity; we can rise above ourselves after all. Benjamin knew then, beyond any doubt, that in honouring his grandfather’s wish he had chosen the right path.
The Guardian returned to the altar. ‘I thank you, one and all,’ he said quietly. Then, after a pause, added, ‘The Ark you seek is not here in Axum.’
‘We’ve been had!’ whispered Jack.
‘Shush!’ Carrington silenced him.
‘The relic in the Sanctuary Chapel behind the cathedral is an old replica,’ said the Guardian. ‘The original Ark is safe – elsewhere. I’m only its Guardian. The Ark is in the care of the Keeper who is not allowed to leave it. He is expecting you. You will be taken to him tomorrow.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 43
