103
Sorokin had only one thing on his mind: getting out of Egypt as quickly as possible. Years of working undercover had taught him how to blend into crowds. He adjusted his dark glasses, and kept watching the departure gate. Ten more minutes, he thought, and I’m through. While he had every confidence in his forged papers, he knew that airports were dangerous places for a man like himself. Very dangerous.
‘Going to London, Colonel Sorokin, or would you prefer Gregory Molotov?’ asked Haddad, placing a hand on Sorokin’s shoulder from behind. ‘Another auction, perhaps?’ Sorokin didn’t flinch.
‘You are mistaken, sir,’ he said, turning slowly around. ‘I’m not a colonel, and my name isn’t Sorokin nor is it Molotov.’
‘Perhaps not today,’ replied Haddad. ‘Today you are George Kovacs from Budapest, I believe. How interesting.’ Sorokin raced through his options. He could easily take out Haddad, a small man, and dash for the exit. Then he noticed the two soldiers with machine guns standing behind Haddad. He would have to negotiate.
‘And you are?’ asked Sorokin, casually taking off his glasses.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Haddad. You are under arrest.’
104
The Guardian’s plane was refuelled and ready to leave. It was just after sunrise.
‘Where are you taking us, Father?’ Carrington asked.
The black priest shrugged. ‘Only the Guardian knows.’ Habakkuk looked annoyed; he’d been unable to contact the Cardinal the night before. Overtaken by events, he hadn’t spoken to His Eminence since Frumentius’ death.
‘But he’s staying here to bury his brother ...’
‘Gebra Christos will take us to the Keeper,’ snapped Habakkuk.
‘Who is Gebra Christos?’
‘That’s him over there.’ Habakkuk pointed to a priest with long white hair walking towards the plane. ‘He’s the Protector of Secrets ...’
Professor Khalil had spent the entire night examining Krakowski’s tablet with Carrington, lamenting the fact that she wasn’t able to take a plaster cast of it. Krakowski on the other hand, looked refreshed and was busily scribbling something on notepaper.
‘You look rather chirpy this morning, Ben, what are you doing?’ Dr Rosen asked, glancing over his shoulder.
‘Jotting down a few ideas – they came to me in the cathedral. I couldn’t get them out of my head.’
‘Ideas? But these are clefs and staffs ... notes.’
‘Yes, musical ideas; melodies, phrases, whole brass sections, the violins here and then the oboe and the flute – it’s quite extraordinary. There was music everywhere last night. I’ve never experienced such a feeling before.’
‘You’re composing?’
‘I suppose I am. Look, I’m just writing down what I hear – no corrections!’
‘Just like the Mozart manuscripts you told me about,’ continued Dr Rosen. ‘How did you put it – a flawless flow of musical genius written down by someone taking dictation from God.’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far,’ Krakowski said, laughing, ‘but there’s certainly something about this place.’
‘Funny you should say that, I had a strange dream.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘Surgery. I think I’ve finally worked out a safer and cheaper way to do these operations. It actually came to me in the cathedral last night ... I must come back here soon to do some more work. You know my husband ... he ... ’
Krakowski squeezed her hand. ‘I know.’
‘Don’t look so glum,’ Jana said, linking arms with Jack. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing much. It’s just that one of the greatest stories of all time appears to be unfolding in front of my very eyes, and I’m told to leave my camera gear behind and swear an oath of silence, that’s all. And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Silly me has already promised ...’
‘What?’
‘A great story with great photos!’
‘Wasn’t that a little hasty?’
‘I needed the advance ...’
‘Oh Jack; not again ...’ Jana shook her head. ‘You’ll just have to come up with something, won’t you? But don’t forget your oath,’ she reminded him, wagging her finger.
‘I’m working on it.’
Jana turned to face Jack full on. ‘I’m so happy, Jack, I can’t explain it ...’ she said.
‘You are glowing, Jana, you know, like ...’ A sadness washed over him. ‘Like what?’
‘Like a woman in love,’ he replied quietly. Jana blushed deeply and she let go of his arm. Carrington watched her from behind; he too had noticed the glow. For the first time since the Luxor horror he felt at peace. The grieving had somehow eased, even stopped in the cathedral the night before.
Grieving is love without a home, thought Carrington. Perhaps I’ve come home. Remembering the Guardian’s words – God will reward you, in this life and the next – he began to smile.
The plane climbed slowly, circled Axum, and then turned north. ‘This feels like a pilgrimage. I wonder where we’re heading,’ said Professor Khalil, looking tired.
‘The Protector of Secrets will take us into his confidence in due course I expect,’ replied Carrington. ‘I only hope it isn’t Mount Sinai; there was nowhere to land and I can’t see any parachutes,’ he quipped. ‘Seriously, what did you think of Ben’s tablet?’
‘Well, both have been crafted from the same material, so much is clear, but it isn’t stone. I haven’t seen anything quite like it before. It’s a strange, stone-like substance, yet quite different. Alien. Extra-terrestrial perhaps.’
‘You mean, like – not of this world?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘You’ll laugh.’
‘Try me.’
‘A meteorite.’
‘Star dust?’
‘Yes. I saw a small stele carved from a meteorite in South America once; it reminded me of that.’
‘And the writing, the hieroglyphs?’
‘That’s easy; classic New Kingdom. Eighteenth dynasty I’d say, close to the reign of Akhenaten. Amarna period or shortly thereafter.’
‘The biblical time of Moses – close enough. That fits.’
‘It does.’
Gebra Christos, the Protector of Secrets, leaned over to Habakkuk, whispered and pointed to the others. Habakkuk unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up.
‘I can now tell you where we are heading ...’ said Habakkuk, slowly. This was enjoyable, he thought.
‘Drum roll please, Maestro,’ Carrington joked, leaning across to Krakowski.
‘We are going to Lalibela,’ Habakkuk announced.
‘The Eighth Wonder of the world – according to UNESCO, that is,’ blurted Krakowski.
‘What do you mean?’ Carrington asked.
‘There are these extraordinary rock-hewn churches from the thirteenth century –King Lalibela built them but, to this day no one really knows how it was done.’
‘The locals believe they were built by angels,’ said Khalil. ‘Perhaps they’re right.’
‘It was the capital of the Ethiopian Empire during the Zagwe dynasty. It used to be called Roha,’ Habakkuk explained.
Roha! Of course, thought Krakowski. Father’s second password; he knew!
‘You are a well-informed lot,’ Jack cut in, furiously taking notes. ‘I must confess, I haven’t even heard of the place.’
‘I’ve always wanted to see them,’ said Professor Khalil, ‘they’re supposed to be amazing. Whole churches – some completely freestanding monoliths – carved out of solid rock from the top down, with windows and altars and large open spaces. Quite unbelievable, really.’
‘My late husband visited the churches just before he ...’ said Dr Rosen quietly, ‘... his plane crashed in the mountains not far from here. I’ve wanted to visit them ever since.’
‘I had no idea this is where it happened,’ Jana said, reaching for
Dr Rosen’s hand.
‘His body has never been found. He’s still out there,’ whispered Dr Rosen. ‘Perhaps waiting for me.’
‘Well, Doctor, you are about to see the churches,’ Habakkuk said, looking out the window. ‘We are almost there. Here they come – look.’ The plane had commenced its descent and was losing altitude fast.
‘Those long trenches over there – can you see them – are all part of the churches we’re going to visit,’ Habakkuk explained. ‘And here, just below us, is the River Jordan and the village itself.’ The plane made a wide turn to slow its descent, giving them a splendid view of the ancient site below. As they drew closer, the deep trenches revealed themselves as massive walls of pink tuff protecting the churches from the world outside.
‘That’s Beite Medane Alem down there.’ Habakkuk pointed to a huge free-standing rectangular structure in the centre of a walled courtyard. From above, it looked like a Greek temple. ‘The largest of the rock-hewn churches in Lalibela. And there, in the next enclosure, are the Beite Mariam churches,’ he continued excitedly, ‘and down here, the twin church Golgota – Debre Sina. Can you all see it? This is the holiest shrine in Lalibela.’
‘What’s that strange-looking structure in front of it?’ Jana asked.
‘The Tomb of Adam ...’
‘What? The Tomb of Adam? And I haven’t got my camera,’ cried Jack, nose pressed against the window. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘This is the best way to see them – an angel’s view from above. You really get an idea of the scale. A whole mountain had to be chiselled away by hand to create all this,’ observed Habakkuk.
‘Look at all these people,’ Krakowski interjected. ‘Is there a festival?’
‘No. These are pilgrims ...’
The pilot put the plane down on the short, rutted runway with great skill and turned off the engines. Carrington looked out the window. A contingent of bearded monks stood in front of a contraption without windows, seats or doors. Usually pressed into service to deliver livestock and farm produce to market, the old bus looked more like an open sardine can on wheels than a vehicle capable of locomotion.
One by one, they climbed down the wooden ladder leaning against the plane and walked across to the waiting monks. ‘Please, get in,’ said Habakkuk, pointing to the bus. ‘The Keeper sends his greetings. He will meet us in the Selassie Chapel tonight,’ Habakkuk announced, ‘after all the pilgrims have left. He is preparing the way.’
105
‘We are both practical men, Chief Inspector,’ said Sorokin, watching Haddad carefully. ‘I can help you, if you help me.’
‘The way I see it, Colonel,’ replied Haddad, spreading his fingers, ‘you are the one very much in need of help, not me.’
‘Actually, the ones really needing help – urgently, I might add – are your friends you sent into Ethiopia with Father Habakkuk this morning.’ Judging by the expression on Haddad’s face, Sorokin knew he had chosen the right approach.
‘How so?’
‘Father Habakkuk is a very dangerous man. He’s a zealot with a mission, and we both know how dangerous that can be.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘He’s not what he seems. He’s not helping the old Guardian recover the tablets; he’s working for the Vatican. He wants to destroy the tablets and all those involved. No witnesses, you see.’
‘How do I know you’re not just making all this up?’
‘Chief Inspector ... please ... This is insulting to both of us and there isn’t much time.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I overheard things ... you know how it works ...’
‘What’s on your mind?’
Sorokin began to smile. ‘Here’s the deal, but it doesn’t only involve me.’
‘Oh? Who else then?’
‘Horst Newman.’
‘You lead a charmed life, Mr Newman,’ said Haddad, stepping into the tiny cell. Shackled to the wall, Horst sat on a stool in the corner.
‘From where I sit, it doesn’t quite look like that,’ replied Horst, lifting the chains cutting into his chafed wrists.
‘As your lawyer would have told you yesterday, negotiations for your release are well advanced. However, certain obstacles remain. Quite tricky ones, I might add.’
Horst sat up as if poked with a hot iron from behind. ‘What obstacles?’ he demanded.
‘I understand that you are well connected in Ethiopia; to both the rebels and the military ...’ Haddad continued, ignoring the question. ‘Wasn’t it only last year that you supplied weapons to both sides?’ Horst did not reply. ‘This is not a trick question, Mr Newman. If you are prepared to help us, we could perhaps remove the tricky obstacles standing in the way of your release ...’
‘How can I possibly help you, Chief Inspector?’ asked Horst, looking suddenly interested.
‘Through your Ethiopian contacts. And besides, your sister appears to be in serious danger. She’s in Ethiopia as we speak and needs your help.’
‘This is a bad joke, surely,’ replied Horst, shaking his head.
‘Far from it. But there’s someone who can explain all this much better than I,’ said Haddad, walking to the door.
‘Who?’
The cell door creaked open and a prison guard appeared in the doorway. ‘Bring him in!’ barked Haddad. ‘I think you already know this man.’
Horst gasped. ‘You?’ Bumping his head against the low doorframe, Sorokin stepped into the cell.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ Haddad said and left.
Haddad paced in front of the closed cell door. To make any deal with a man like Sorokin was certainly a last resort. This situation demanded desperate measures, Haddad told himself. He glanced at his watch, took a deep breath and pushed open the door. ‘Well? What’s your answer?’
‘We need access to our mobile phones ...’ explained Sorokin calmly.
‘I’ll arrange it,’ said Haddad.
Horst and Sorokin spent hours on the phone tracking down their Ethiopian contacts. Haddad was still sceptical, but he had little choice. ‘Here’s my deal,’ he said, unlocking Horst’s handcuffs. ‘If your associates are as reliable as you claim and they can deliver ... well, you and the Colonel will be allowed to stay in Ethiopia when we’re finished. Clear so far?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Horst, winking at Sorokin standing next to him.
‘If we come under attack, you are under attack. If we fail, well ... In short, your lives depend on the success of this mission, understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Sorokin. This was the kind of talk he liked; no room for misunderstandings. In Haddad’s place, he would have done exactly the same. His own contacts in Ethiopia were Russian military ‘advisers’. Sorokin had dealt with them before; their cooperation was for sale. Self-interest and greed were always reliable.
Horst was in a similar position: he had to promise the rebels another arms deal in return for safe passage across Ethiopian airspace and entry into Axum.
‘Now, put these on.’ Haddad pointed to the black battle fatigues on the table in front of him. ‘We’re leaving in two hours.’
106
The brooding, rock-fortress-like hill – pink during the day, now silver in the ghostly light of the full moon – reminded Carrington of Karnak. A thunderstorm was approaching from the south, sending dark clouds racing across the night sky. Thunder rumbled some distance away.
‘We have to walk from here,’ Habakkuk said, handing out lanterns with large candles. ‘You’ll need these; there’s no light in the churches, or along the way.’
‘Is that the entry to the site?’ Jack asked, pointing to a narrow breach in the rock wall towering above them.
‘It is. The Keeper will meet us at Beite Medhane Alem. We saw it from the plane, remember? The big, free-standing rock church. It’s just through here.’ Habakkuk led the way; Krakowski fell in beside him.
‘I first came across the Grail legend in your father’s
papers as a young priest in Rome just after the War,’ Habakkuk said. ‘His ideas were the inspiration for my own work later on.’
‘In what way?’ asked Krakowski, surprised.
‘Your father made an important connection: he pointed out that the Holy Grail made its first appearance in France in 1182 in a poem by Chretien de Troyes. Three years later, in 1185, Prince Lalibela left Jerusalem and returned to Ethiopia to regain his crown – your father believed he had help from the Templars. A few years after that, around 1195 or so, Wolfram von Eschenbach wrote his epic dealing with the same subject.’
‘Parzival,’ interrupted Krakowski, ‘and he took so much from de Troyes’ unfinished work.’
‘Exactly. But ...’ Habakkuk continued, ‘Wolfram put in specific references not only to the Templars, but to Ethiopia, and made other important changes.’
‘The Holy Grail – no longer a cup – became a stone,’ Krakowski said, remembering his father’s notes.
‘Quite. And your father was convinced that the stone was the tablets. The tablets and the stone were one, you see.’
‘Are you suggesting the Templars knew this?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Astonishing,’ mumbled Krakowski to himself, ‘it all fits!’
‘You said earlier that Lalibela was once called Roha ...’ said Carrington.
‘Quite. And what is particularly interesting is the fact that one short passage in Wolfram’s poem specifically refers to Roha ...’
‘What? Wolfram knew about Roha?’ asked Jack.
‘Yes. Many scholars still think it’s a reference to the Rohischer Berg – a mountain in Austria – but I think that’s nonsense. And so did Maestro Krakowski’s father, by the way. I have no doubt he was right. He came to the view that Parzival was a carefully crafted literary map showing the way ... for the initiated ...’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 44
