‘Well, it’s quite a story. A crafty Sir Eric was behind all this. He negotiated the release of his son; it’s all tied up with that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Haddad told me. Just before we left Luxor ...’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘So much was going on ...’
‘How did Newman pull this off?
‘Politics and money.’
‘In what way?’
‘After Omar died, the Egyptians didn’t want a high profile trial dragging everything through the courts again. Imagine what it would have done to tourism, for a start.’
‘What about the statue? What about London and the auction?’
‘That’s all part of it, you see. The theft of the statue and Horst’s involvement with the terrorists ... they’re all related.’
‘How did he end up here, then?’ Jana asked, pointing to the statue.
‘Enter, Sir Eric.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s very clever, listen. Newman offered the Egyptians a solution to a thorny problem. First, there was the pending court case in London about the auction debacle, with Horst in the middle of it all. Then we have his arrest in Egypt along with allegations of terrorist activities involving Omar. Now Omar’s dead; more complications ...’
‘How does Newman fit into all this?’
‘In return for his son’s release – all charges dropped in Egypt and in London – he offered to pay the Egyptian government ten million pounds for the statue.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Well, think about it. The auctioneers are happy; no embarrassing court case dragging their reputation through the mud and a fat commission to boot. The Egyptians are happy. No court case in London and no sensational trial of a westerner accused of terrorist activities in Egypt. And besides, their own hands weren’t quite clean either. The money from the sale went straight to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo; much needed funds for overdue renovations, I believe. Professor Khalil will be happy too.’
‘Incredible.’
‘However, there was one nasty little fly in the ointment.’
‘What?’
‘The Egyptians didn’t want the statue to fall into private hands and then just disappear. Once again, Newman offered them a solution.’
‘He did? How?’
‘He agreed to bequeath the statue to the Vatican Museum, effective immediately.’
‘To the Vatican? And the Vatican was acceptable to the Egyptians?’
Smiling, Carrington pointed to Akhenaten. ‘Life’s full of compromises. Here he is. It’s all rather brilliant, you must admit.’
Jana walked slowly around the statue. ‘Do you think the idea of one all-powerful God was the inspired idea of this man?’ She stopped and pointed to Akhenaten. ‘This king, so far ahead of his time ... 3500 years ago?’
‘The only thing set in stone is his smile,’ replied Carrington. ‘As for the rest, who knows?’
‘Ah, yes. Keep an open mind; I do remember ...’
‘Good. Now, are you ready for more?’
‘There’s more?’
‘Follow me.’ Carrington took Jana by the hand and guided her back to the exit. ‘All we need now is a taxi.’
‘You’re a dark horse, Marcus Carrington ... Where are we going?’
‘Piazza Navona.’
‘Too many tourists,’ explained the taxi driver, shrugging apologetically as they sat in gridlocked traffic. Carrington asked him to stop and paid the fare. ‘We can walk from here,’ he said, ‘it’ll be faster.’
The narrow, cobblestoned alley was packed. Almost everyone appeared to be heading in the same direction – towards Piazza Navona.
‘How much further?’ asked Jana.
‘We’re almost there. Can you hear it?’
‘Water? A fountain?’
‘Yes; three actually – Bernini masterpieces.’ They turned a corner and found themselves in a large, sun-drenched square thronging with tourists.
‘Well, what’s the surprise?’ asked Jana, laughing. ‘Fountains?’
‘No. Your surprise is waiting over there.’ Carrington pointed to an open air restaurant facing the square. Jana looked across and saw someone waving in their direction. Carrington waved back.
‘It can’t be!’ said Jana, pulling Carrington towards the restaurant. ‘Benjamin? Bettany?’
‘Who else?’
‘Marcus was behind all this,’ explained Dr Rosen, kissing Jana on the cheek. ‘He arranged it all.’
Jana looked at Carrington. Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled back.
‘It’s a great idea, Marcus,’ said Krakowski, patting Carrington on the arm. ‘What about Jack?’
‘I spoke to him in New York a couple of days ago; he said he’d come.’
‘We heard about your father,’ said Jana, turning to Dr Rosen. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you ... yes, quite sudden, but not unexpected. The funeral was last week,’ replied Dr Rosen. ‘There’s something about it you should know ...’
‘Not now, Bettany, please,’ said Krakowski.
‘It’s all right, Ben, I want to tell them.’
‘What is it?’ asked Carrington, reaching for Dr Rosen’s hand.
‘There was a codicil in his will; a recent one. He asked to be buried wearing the Ritterkreuz and the Totenkopf ring ...’ Dr Rosen was interrupted by loud shouting and a policeman’s whistle, coming from somewhere in the crowd in front of them.
A Vespa pushed slowly through the parting throng and stopped in front of the restaurant. Jack jumped off the pillion seat, kissed the girl on the motor scooter on the cheek, and began to look around. The girl took off before the angry policeman could reach her.
‘Jack, over here,’ shouted Jana, waving. Jack hurried towards her.
‘I made it,’ said Jack, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘But only just; what a ride.’
‘New girlfriend?’ asked Jana.
‘Not quite. There were no taxis at my hotel and I got talking to this girl in the lobby; she’d just delivered some flowers. I told her I had to get to Piazza Navona in a hurry ... and, well, she was going the same way; the florist is somewhere over here ...’
‘You lead a charmed life, Jack,’ said Dr Rosen, laughing.
‘What were you doing in New York?’ asked Jana.
‘Just signed a book deal; Nazi gold and hidden Swiss bank accounts are quite the rage at the moment ...’
‘The big story, at last, eh? Well done, Jack! You’ll definitely need a new wardrobe now, surely,’ said Jana, lowering her voice. ‘Outback Armani in New York? It won’t work; trust me!’
‘That’s what my publisher said.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
Jack shrugged. ‘What do you think?’ he replied, running his hands over the smooth lapels of his beloved bomber jacket. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this – see?’
Jana rolled her eyes. ‘Just don’t tell me later I didn’t try, okay?’
‘It’s really good to see you all,’ said Jack, changing the subject. ‘I need a drink.’
Krakowski ordered champagne.
‘Tell them about the Foundation, Ben,’ prompted Dr Rosen.
‘Lord Ashburton made me a co-trustee ...’
‘That’s great; congratulations,’ interrupted Carrington. ‘We should drink to that.’
‘I would like to propose a toast,’ said Krakowski, his eyes misty. ‘To my dear father’s violin.’ Krakowski reached for his glass and stood up. ‘He was right; the Empress held the key. To the Empress. May she continue to enchant forever.’ The others stood up as well. ‘To the Empress,’ they chorused, and touched glasses.
Touring the concert halls of the world, the Empress had become famous. But by giving up her secrets, she had become a legend.
***
MORE BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
Th
e Disappearance of Anna Popov
The Hidden Genes of Professor K
Encouraged by the reception of The Empress Holds the Key, I released my next thriller –The Disappearance of Anna Popov – in 2014.
When Jack Rogan, celebrated author and journalist, stumbles on a mysterious clue pointing to the tragic disappearance of two girls from Alice Springs, he can’t resist investigating.
Rogan is joined by friends: Rebecca Armstrong, his New York literary agent, Andrew Simpson, a retired Aboriginal police officer and Cassandra, an enigmatic psychic as he follows the trail of the missing girls into the remote Dreamtime-wilderness of outback Australia.
Soon, past the point of no return, they enter a dark web of superstition and are drawn into the upside-down-world of an outlaw bikie gang where the ruler is an evil master, outcasts are heroes, and cruelty and violence is admired and rewarded.
Cassandra, though, has a secret agenda of her own. Using her occult powers to avenge an old, deep wrong, she sets the scene for an epic showdown where the stakes are high and the loser faces death and oblivion.
Will Rogan succeed? Will a desperate mother’s prayers be answered? Will a lost daughter be found? Or will the forces of evil crush all their hopes and dreams?
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ANNA POPOV
A dark, page-turning psychological thriller
Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2
Gabriel Farago
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I first came across the story of Jandamarra and the Bunuba Resistance in the remote Kimberley in Western Australia. Leaning against a 700 year old boab tree with my Aboriginal guide – a Bunuba elder – I was looking up at the tall cliffs guarding the entrance to Windjana Gorge; his country. We had just visited some stunning Aboriginal rock art – haunting paintings thought to be more than twenty thousand years old. Rising like a fortress out of the glare, the tall cliffs – remnants of an ancient Devonian reef – formed a forbidding barrier between his world and mine.
‘This is where it all happened,’ the old man said, pointing into the deep gorge cut through the rock by the Lennard River. ‘And it wasn’t that long ago. Jandamarra’s cave is just up there.’
Jandamarra was an Aboriginal freedom fighter in the 1890s who refused to surrender his country and his freedom to the white settlers pushing relentlessly north.
As the shadows lengthened, I listened to the remarkable story of first contact between the Bunuba and the early Australian pastoralists. It was a stirring tale of heroism and despair, unspeakable brutality and acts of great courage. It was the final chapter in the long history of a proud people. With the story ending in tragedy, the painful words turned into a whisper of defeat, falling from the lips of one of its last true elders. Caught between two worlds, Jandamarra had tried to find a way of embracing the new, but the old was in his blood and could not be denied.
This conflict is by no means over. It exists today. Colliding cultures send ripples of discord far into the future and affect generations. It is as relevant today as it was in Jandamarra’s time. The stage is the same, so is the plot. Only the actors are different.
As the embers of our campfire turned slowly to ash, I began to wonder ... What if Jandamarra had lived today? What if ...
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
PROLOGUE
Alice Springs, January 2005
Anna was dancing in The Shed the night she disappeared. The Shed was a notorious watering hole frequented mainly by thirsty truckies. It called itself a bush pub, but that was an exaggeration. It was more like a long wooden bar with a corrugated iron roof held up by gnarled fence posts and barbed wire. There were no walls. The floor, hard as rock, was red desert earth compacted by thousands of feet shuffling to the bar for a drink. Because the beer was always cold and the steaks huge and cheap, the place was always packed. More recently, however, there was one more added attraction: backpackers, mainly girls, touring the Outback. Looking for cheap grog and adventure, the young nomads had made The Shed their own. Located three kilometres out of Alice, it was within easy walking distance of the youth hostels and budget motels popular with tourists.
A local bush band was playing country and western music and the mouth-watering aroma of frying onions and sizzling sausages drifted across from the barbecue. It was very hot and very late.
‘Beer, mate?’ asked the barmaid, sizing up the tall dark stranger.
The handsome Aboriginal took off his broad-rimmed drover’s hat, wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief and nodded. ‘One for your friend as well?’ she asked, pointing to the huge snake wound around his neck and shoulders.
‘No thanks, she’s driving,’ he said, affectionately stroking the exquisite python.
Standing at the other end of the bar, a group of truckies were eyeing off the girls on the improvised dance floor. ‘Look, the sheilas have to dance with each other ’cause there’re no blokes here having a go,’ said one, downing another beer.
‘I bet you can’t get them to dance with you, mate; not even one,’ said another, patting his friend on the hairy beer gut bulging over his shorts. ‘Just look at you, you slob.’
‘Sure can.’
‘Oh yeah? You’re all talk. What’s it worth?’
‘Ten rounds.’ The others laughed.
‘You’re on.’
The man slammed down his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Pulling down his singlet to cover part of his protruding gut, he slipped his thongs back on and shuffled unsteadily towards the dance floor.
Barefoot and wearing the briefest of shorts and a tightfitting pink tee shirt accentuating her firm breasts, Anna, silky blonde hair swishing against the tips of her tanned shoulder blades, was dancing with her friend Julia. Anna was looking for freedom, Julia for the adventure which the novelty of travel to remote places invariably offered. The Shed had it all. Excitement, danger, and the lure of the unknown far away from the watchful eyes of fretting parents and curious friends. Enjoying her favourite Dixie Chicks song, Anna swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, letting the familiar beat of the music carry her away. When it stopped and she opened her eyes, she almost bumped into the grotesque fat man towering over her.
‘How about a dance, luv?’ said the fat man, his bald head glistening with sweat.
‘No thanks,’ she snapped, turning away.
‘He’s gross,’ she whispered to Julia. ‘Let’s take a break.’
As his mates at the bar roared laughing, a flash of anger raced across the face of the fat truckie.
‘Come on, sweetie, just one. Be a good sport,’ he persisted, putting a heavy, sweaty hand on Anna’s shoulder.
‘Get off me!’ shouted Anna, pushing the fleshy hand away in disgust.
His mates at the bar began to whistle and hoot. Instead of walking away, the fat man grabbed Anna from behind, spun her around and lifted her up like a rag doll. Pressing her against his huge chest, he lumbered awkwardly around the dance floor like a dancing bear, performing his tricks at the fair. Anna, the man’s hot beer breath in her face, began to retch.
The man with the snake sipped his beer and watched the odd couple stagger across the dance floor. Slowly, he unwound the python, lifted it over his head and gently put it down on the bar.
‘Look after her for me, luv,’ he said to the barmaid, ‘she’s harmless. I’ll be right back.’ He walked slowly over to the dance floor.
‘That’s enough, mate. Put her down,’ he said, patting the fat man on the back.
The truckie turned his head and glared, his bloodshot eyes slightly unfocused.
‘Fuck off, darkie. This is none of your business,’ he hissed angrily.
The snake man’s right hand shot up in silent reply and grabbed the fat man’s ear. ‘I don’t think you heard me,’ he said, twisting the ear. ‘Let her go.’
The fat man let go of Ann
a, clenched his fists and spun around.
The tall man let go of the ear and stepped back.
The fat man charged – 120 kilos of rage.
Like most professional fighters, the tall man had the waist of a ballerina and the shoulders of a weightlifter. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he stood poised like a cat watching its prey. He sidestepped the charge easily, letting the fat man crash into the bar.
‘Fight, you fucking coward!’ bellowed the fat man, picking himself up.
‘Okay.’
The tall man exploded into action. The first punch, delivered by his left fist, landed on his opponent’s beer gut and went deep. The second, delivered by his right, caught the fat man on the left cheek and broke a bone. The fight was over in an instant. Two more massive blows, one to the chin and one to the nose, finished the truckie off.
‘Anyone else?’ the tall man asked, squaring his shoulders. No one stepped forward. ‘He had it coming. It’s over. Get back to your beers.’
The tall man walked to the far end of the bar, uncoiled the snake which had wound itself around a post, and slung it over his shoulders.
‘Thanks for looking after her, luv,’ he said to the barmaid. ‘One more for the road, please.’ Gulping down his beer, he reached for his hat, threw a few coins on the bar and walked out into the darkness.
Julia put her arm around her friend. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, a worried look on her face. Anna nodded. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before they all have a go at each other and we’re caught in the middle.’ The two girls left the dance floor and hurried outside.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the others?’ asked Anna. ‘One of the guys from the hostel had a car.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 47
