Hassid smiled, turning his attention to Cara. “It was bumper to bumper most of the way here.” Hassid kissed his wife then pulled away. “Did you make the mezzos?”
She nodded, offering Jazz a dazzling smile. “I hope you like them. I’m usually locked in a cupboard, which doubles as my office at the University, concentrating on my research. Hassid is the main cook.” She smiled as she nodded towards her husband.
“Main, yes, but you are the best.” He grinned back at her as she bowed. “I was instructed to make something special in your honour.”
Jazz could not remember anyone ever having done anything in her honour. As she entered their house her longing for a family life intensified. Vibrant paintings hung in the hallway, which opened up into a large square room with a brick fireplace.
Hassid followed her gaze. “We always have a real fire at Christmas time. Mother was a Coptic Christian just like her sister. After your dad was jailed, our aunt gave up the faith. She felt there was no justice. It did not stop us celebrating Christmas, though.
“My dad was a lapsed Muslim, hence my name.”
Cara caught Jazz’s faraway look. “Stop banging on, Hassid.” She nodded to her husband. “He gets verbal diarrhoea when he’s nervous. Would you like a drink? We have cold water, juices, or name your alcoholic poison. Whatever it is, we will have it. We can sit here and chat if you like before we eat, or would you prefer to go to your room and freshen up?” She pointed to the ceiling.
Jazz smiled. “I’m fine. There is so much I need to catch up on I don’t want to waste a second. A white wine would be great.”
Cara disappeared in search of wine as Hassid got comfortable on the sofa opposite Jazz. He sank back into his chair and crossed his legs.
“You look so English.”
She tugged at her black blouse, wanting to cover as much of her wrist as she could.
“Sorry, that was gauche. What I meant to say is you are like a beautiful English rose. Your dad looked so Italian.” His voice trailed off.
“He was born in Wales. His father came from Amalfi. My mum always said I took after her side of the family.”
“I can see that.” He stared at his sandals, afraid he had alienated her. “I never knew that much about my dad. He was the victim of a car bomb. It was one of those unlucky things. He was attending a conference. He was one of the minions; the bombers weren’t selective about who died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be; his work meant he was hardly ever home. His death convinced Mum to move to the States, where I finished my education. I was eighteen when I left Cairo.”
“You came back?”
He shrugged. “I studied archaeology. What better place to work than Egypt?” Hassid crossed his legs. “You didn’t come here to hear my boring life story. I don’t know what impression you have of your father. As you did not try to contact him, I assume it isn’t good?”
She crossed her arms. “I should have questioned my mother’s version of things.”
“It can’t have been easy. Anyway, it’s passed. Your father loved you. As kids, our parents were always visiting each other’s houses. Francisco and I were practically brought up together.”
She sighed. “I envy you and your closeness; all I had was my nan and my computer.”
“You have us. Your dad made sure you were part of our lives. We drank a toast to you at Christmas, at New Year, and on your birthday. You were an exotic English ghost. It’s good to meet you at last.”
His kind words added to her despair. She wanted to share something of her father with him. “Dad sent me a letter. He wrote it just before he died. Until then, I only had my mother’s version of the past. I want to make things right between us.”
She turned as Cara re-entered the room. Jazz watched her carefully place a brass tray brimming with drinks and bowls of olives on a large olive wood coffee table. She handed Jazz a glass of white wine.
“I heard what you said, Jazz, the last bit anyway. Don’t let Hassid and his tales of happy families intimidate you. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” She offered her two bowls of olives. Jazz picked out the large green variety, which tasted slightly bitter and of warm sunny soil.
“It’s kind of you to say so. When Francisco told me his story of Dad’s life, I realised how selfish my life was. I was eight years old when I overheard my mother telling my nan about my father.” She paused. “I accepted every damning word.”
“You were a child, Jazz; besides the evidence pointed to Marco’s guilt.” Cara’s concerned smile added to her unease.
“I should have looked into it when I was older. I wiped my dad from my life.”
Hassid leant towards her. “Marcos did not expect you to contact him. In some ways he preferred it that way.”
“Why?” Confusion clouded her face.
“He was afraid for you. No doubt Francisco told you about some of your father’s theories?”
Cara gave him a look. “Do we have to go into that now? Give the girl a chance, she just got here.”
Jazz put her wine glass on the side table next to her. “Honestly, I’d rather talk about what was important to my dad. I’ve wasted too much time. You mentioned Dad’s theories?”
“Your dad thought something weird was going on with the accepted historical account of Ancient Egypt. To be fair, Ancient Egyptian history has a lot of gaps.” He uncrossed his legs, and popped an olive into his mouth. “I have my own theories about what might have happened.” He glanced across at Cara, who smiled back at him. “I don’t want to bore you with my ideas.”
“Impossible.” Jazz laughed. “Please, tell me what you think.”
“Hassid, stop playing hard to get. No one likes a tease.” Cara rolled her eyes.
He watched her lick her lipstick-reddened lips, then he coughed nervously. “History is a litany of ego-powered airbrushing. Your father turned the airbrushing theory into a big cover-up. Your presence here means Francisco shares his ideas.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe someone so intelligent is hooked on conspiracy theories.”
Hassid misread the look of doubt on Jazz’s face, coughing awkwardly.
Staring into his deep brown eyes, she decided to trust him. “You mean the Ghost Stealers?”
He sat back in his chair and laughed. “I have not heard that term in years.”
Anxious to dispel the disillusionment shading her face, he leant towards her. “Sorry, but you must admit it’s a little crazy. Every day, scientists discover new facts relating to our origins. The religious account only makes sense to the faithful. Yet your dad believed that a secret conspiratorial organisation exists to maintain the current religious version.”
“And you don’t?” Jazz pushed him, needing answers.
He puffed out his cheeks, then glanced at Cara who was viewing the interchange with interest.
“The odds are stacked against it. The Ghost Stealers were your dad’s way of explaining the anomalies in history. He believed they possessed a secret knowledge.”
“You think he was wrong?” Jazz sipped her wine.
Hassid shrugged. “Some gaps require explanation. I hope for Francisco’s sake there is something conspiratorial in the past. He claims your dad had evidence to prove his theories. He blamed the Ghost Stealers for stitching him up. Paranoia?”
The look of horror on Jazz’s face prompted him to add, “Think about it, Jazz; most religions have very little basis in fact. Why form a secret society to save them?”
She spat an olive stone into her hand and put it in the bowl Cara had provided. “I misjudged him once; I’d hate to do it again.”
Hassid shrugged. “Who knows, the Ghost Stealers might exist… we will find out soon enough.”
“How?”
“The evidence; I imagine it’s why Francisco is coming. No one can hurt your dad now.”
Cara stood up. “Shall we talk about this over dinner, darling? All this Ghost Stealer stuff is wearing me out.”
<
br /> She headed towards the dining room. Jazz and Hassid picked up their glasses. As she followed them, Jazz wondered how she would feel if the Ghost Stealers existed and her dad was right.
Chapter Sixteen
New York, early Thursday morning, 28th March
It was cold and raining. Alistair was oblivious as he sat in the car. He had planned this since his phone call with Dale. Once Francisco was out of the picture, Dale was an unnecessary loose end, like the vermin on his roses. He hated loose ends almost as much as he hated seeking the Reformers’ consent.
Dale was walking down the street, half-watching Salvador, who stared at his friends on the other side of the road. They were about to enter the school gates.
“Papa, hurry; can’t you answer that later? I’ll be late. Mummy always walks me across the road.” He tugged at his father’s jacket as Dale’s mobile buzzed. It was Alistair.
“Wait a minute, son, this is important.” He was using his right hand to put his ear phones in.
Salvador slipped through the slackening grip of his father’s fingers as his best friend, Charlie, yelled to him from the school gate. Intent on reaching him, he did not see the black people carrier hurtling around the bend at ninety miles per hour, and nor did Dale. His focus was on Alistair’s incoming call.
The screech of brakes mingling with the smell of burning rubber distracted him from his mobile. He was quick enough to see the car plough into his son. It tossed his small body onto the bonnet and then into the road.
Dale dropped his phone and rushed towards him, watching the red tail lights of the car speeding off around another bend.
Blood poured from Salva’s head; he bent down to check his son’s chest, oblivious to the people carrier speeding towards him. The last thing he saw was his son’s dead eyes staring up at him.
Alistair parked the car in JFK airport. He left the red wig and Indiana Jones face mask in the boot of the car, revelling in the cinematic feel of the kill. It was also effective: no one would trace it back to him. There were twenty other operatives he could have used, but there was nothing quite like the thrill of the kill.
Chapter Seventeen
Cairo, Thursday evening, 28th March
The olive-wood table dominated the dining room. Two brass candelabras supporting thin yellow unlit candles stood sentry, as intoxicating aromas drifted upwards from the sumptuous food beneath. Jazz remembered her meeting with Francisco. What must he have thought of her pine chest and the takeaway cartons balanced precariously on it?
“Take a seat opposite Hassid.” Cara motioned to the chair. “You both have a lot to discuss. I will sit at the end; for once I don’t mind waiting on you.” She winked at Hassid who took his seat opposite Jazz.
“I don’t want to exclude you.”
“No chance, Jazz; I will enjoy listening.”
“Really? I get the impression you don’t go along with this Ghost Stealers stuff.”
Cara tilted her head, letting her dark hair fall down her back like a horse’s mane. “Neither does Hass. I teach math at the University, but my primary love is geometry. The idea of ghosts and religion does not fit into my neat numerical universe.” She looked into Jazz’s green eyes and immediately regretted her outburst. “Your father was an old man suffering from Alzheimer’s when I met him. The man he was before was gone; all that was left was his shell.”
Jazz made a mental note. In spite of her lengthy answer, Cara had skirted around what she really thought.
Hassid watched the two women assess each other. “Perhaps a little family background will help to put your father’s life in context.”
“Great. What about you two; how did you meet?” Jazz took a piece of pitta bread and dipped it into the thick creamy yogurt.
“I was giving a lecture on my recently published PhD at Harvard. Cara waited until everyone had gone, then asked me for a drink. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Jazz turned towards Cara. “So you share the same interest in archaeology?”
The other woman frowned. “I can’t bear rutting around in old ruins for cracked bits of pottery.” She waved her hand dismissively. “There was a full-length photograph of Hassid advertising his lecture. I was an impressionable under-grad. I had never seen anyone so exotic. Once he was hooked, I stuck to him like glue.”
He reddened under his olive skin. “Wasn’t it the other way round?”
She blew him a kiss. “Jazz doesn’t want to hear about us.”
Jazz smiled, desperate to move away from the growing undercurrents swirling between them. “Francisco said you worked for Cairo Antiquities.”
“I’m getting too old for field trips; they took me away for months on end. My job at the Antiquities is more or less nine to five.”
Jazz wiped her mouth with the cotton napkin. “The company Francisco works for started out in antiquities. Dad thought it was orchestrating the whole cover-up.”
Cara burst out laughing then covered her mouth. “Sorry, but it sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.”
Across the table Hassid threw his wife a disapproving look, then smiled at Jazz. “Your father saw shadows and suspicions lurking in coincidences.”
“You disagree?”
“I respected your father, and I respect Francisco too; we have a lot in common.” Hassid winked at Jazz as he raised his glass.
“Like?”
“Dabbling in forbidden fruit; ostensibly I collate material on the different gods of Egypt. It has very little to do with archaeology, but it pays the mortgage. I really love my own research. It overlaps with your dad’s interests. To be honest, it’s not even remotely dangerous.”
“Darling, I’m sure Jazz isn’t bothered about what you do.”
“Actually, I’d love to hear more.”
Jazz pursed her lips as Hass suppressed a smile. “My primary focus is the evolution of Egyptian religion, not Nefertiti.”
“Darling, don’t turn this into Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.” Cara yawned as she passed Jazz some divine-tasting spinach with lemon and pine nuts.
“It sounds fascinating, besides the more I know about Ancient Egypt, the better I will understand my father.”
He took a deep breath, as Jazz smiled encouragingly.
“It’s hard to pinpoint where the Egyptians came from. The Greeks believed they were Ethiopians who had moved north after climate change. Ethiopia was a large, sophisticated country ten thousand years ago, extending as far as Asia. It was known as Beled-es-Soudan: the land of the blacks. Classical historians writing in ancient times claimed that the Ethiopians were the first to introduce the notion of gods to the world.” Hassid coughed nervously. “Before gods there were mysterious powers. The Ethiopians translated these forces into gods. They began the science of the stars and gave names to the planets.
In those days, the gods were black, not white. There is enough evidence to suggest that the Greeks and even Romans worshipped black gods millennia after that. Even Asian gods wear Ethiopian crowns on their heads.”
“Honey, I warned you about turning this into a history of the world.” Cara stifled another yawn.
“To understand you need background. You don’t mind, do you, Jazz?”
She smiled then crossed her legs, a little uncomfortable about taking sides.
“Many Egyptian statues and reliefs of the Old Dynasty have the same racial characteristics as the Nubians. Look, I’ll show you.” He got up from the table and picked up a statue which she hadn’t noticed when she had entered. “You can see the black African characteristics on this pharaoh. Black Africa oozed through Egyptian culture, because it was their culture. Most of the ancient Ethiopian texts were destroyed, but the monuments of the Upper Nile still exist; and those people were black. Punt was called the Holy Land by Ancient Egyptians. The early pharaohs traded gold with it, suggesting that it might have been a superior culture. Millennia later, the female Pharaoh Hatshepsut transplanted trees from there. It is probably somewhere near the Horn
of Africa. Around ten thousand, five hundred years ago, perhaps less, the heavy rains turned the desert landscape into lush savannah land, creating a kind of paradise. The Egyptians called it ta netjer: “land of the god”. No one speaks of it now, because racism changed how we view the past, by altering our perspective.”
Jazz waved her hand. “You just lost me. Why has racism changed our view of the past?”
“Our modern understanding of the Ancient Egyptians is derived from the post-Napoleonic era. Most archaeologists who visited Egypt then were white, middle-to-upper class Victorians. Their racist views shaped our present view of Ancient Egypt.”
“Are we really looking at Ancient Egypt through the telescopic lens of a Victorian?” Jazz shivered.
“Puritanical Victorians and French Jesuit priests influenced our interpretations of Egyptian religious practices.” He tipped his glass back and emptied it.
“To be fair, it’s easy to see how the Victorians concluded that the Egyptians were a polytheistic culture there is lots of evidence out there proclaiming they were. I disagree. I did a little research of my own.”
After refilling his glass, he sat back in his chair. “My ideas are percolating, not formed.”
“Maybe they should be drowned at birth.” Cara took another sip of wine.
“Perhaps I should keep my theories to myself until I have a proven hypothesis.” His gaze rested on his wife.
“Honey, don’t be silly, if Jazz wants to hear your ideas, I do too.” She smiled sweetly back at him, it was all the encouragement he needed.
“The gods invaded all forms of life; unlike the Greek deities there was no separation. Curiously, the most ancient form for god in Egyptian is netjar, whose meaning is abstract.
“In later times, the priests of Heliopolis developed the creation story: ‘Out of nothing, nothing comes’.”
Jazz pulled a face. “It sounds like something that Sartre might say, not an Ancient Egyptian.”
The Ghost Reapers Page 9
