Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  Rothschild closed the line and sat back in his chair thoughtfully. How well he recalled this man as being trained by a rogue, defunct, offshoot of the Soviet Union’s Secret Service, and there were known KGB parallels. Rhinefeld was an assassin and a mercenary and a few other things besides, but more to the point, he was believed dead! Richard Reece and the Adulis Affair in 2050 – that was it! He would refer to the archives for more specific information on this man, but first he should disseminate this information and particularly to Richard. He tapped his fingers on the desk while considering the wider implications of this exposé. The Strasbourg-based conglomerate Spheron had engaged this man previously, in order to do its dirty work. So now it seemed likely that the faceless men who ran that corporation had slipped back into their old ways. He pressed a button on his desktop and the projected image of his keyboard reappeared. He should warn Richard and with all haste. He formulated an abrive:

  Security Alert – Code 1

  An old adversary has reappeared. Rhinefeld, formally believed dead. Understood to have access to private Aviation – could turn up anywhere. Possible that the situation in Alex compromised. Exercise extreme caution. Repeat. Extreme caution required. Confirm receipt of Code 1 directive ASAP.

  The House of Mubarakar – simultaneous

  Richard sat opposite Mubarakar absorbed by stories of discovery and adventure. He felt his telephonic pager vibrate and withdrew it from his pocket. He glanced at the small square screen, the backlight of which had enhanced Rothschild’s name. He looked up again. “Sorry, Professor, carry on, I’m with you. It’s just London, another brief update I expect . . . it can wait.” Richard replaced the pager into a coat pocket where it hung over the back of his chair, zipped the pocket shut and fixed his attention on his host.

  “Enough of such stories, Richard,” said Mubarakar, with an easy smile. “Look, it is almost midnight. We must proceed with the task in hand.” Mubarakar’s face had the warm glow of someone recounting a life’s work with pride of purpose and Richard was a worthy recipient.

  Richard shuffled in his chair, still spellbound by the old man’s adventures. “I suppose so,” he said, straightening his shoulders and leaning back in a resigned fashion. A faint odour of perfumed mustiness exuded from the ageing upholstery as he moved, and Richard ran his hands over the carved wooden arms of the Baroque-period furniture piece and admired their ornate design. Then he reached across to the shared, circular, occasional table and lifted a white porcelain cup to his lips and sipped the dregs of cold tea; the sweetness of it was stronger than before. The delicate cup had a narrow, coloured rim to it, incorporating a vivid gold and ochre-red band. The pattern of small squares inadvertently reminded him of the rim to Queen Nefertiti’s headdress. How could he forget it? The image and a similar one of Naomi dressed equally royally were impregnated in his memory. His thoughts lingered on Naomi for a while – her face, her smile – and he wondered where she was now. Overwhelmed by tales of ancient adventure, while surrounded by such opulence and in the company of a true master of mysteries, time stood still for him.

  Mubarakar watched Richard for a moment and smiled again. “I see you have other things on your mind, Richard,” he said quietly, as he rang a small brass bell on the table calling for more tea.

  Richard nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “There is an undercurrent building, Professor, I can feel it, and the source is greed and control, fed by a world dependent on the Kalahari crystals . . . the crystals from Mars . . . or elsewhere.” He looked the Professor in the eye. “I have a question for you.”

  “And I will answer, my friend, if I can.”

  For a moment, Richard reconsidered his intentions. But if there was anybody on this planet that he could trust it was Mubarakar. “During all your years, Professor,” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, “all your studies, your enlightenment, did you ever uncover evidence of an ancient fellowship, like a clan – possibly centred on the Pyramids at Giza?”

  “Tell me more of what you know.”

  “A fellowship that was originally from Eridu, I think, or perhaps Babylon? A fellowship whose considerable influence, both politically and scientifically, gradually waned until after many thousands of years it finally disappeared. For centuries, Professor, there has been no trace of it.”

  Mubarakar’s eyes narrowed. “In my experience, fellowships or brotherhoods are fashioned to serve a purpose . . . continuity of faith or values, protection of a sacred object, or even a royal line, or the safeguarding of knowledge – possibly all of these things.”

  Richard nodded. He leaned towards Mubarakar. “They . . . those that remain from this brotherhood . . . have a mark, a sign, a motif if you like?”

  Mubarakar raised his head expectantly and breathed in deeply. He seemed to know where Richard was going with his questioning.

  “A blue hand,” said Richard impassively, lowering his voice to a whisper again. “Fingers outstretched but almost together and the thumb stretched upwards at right angles. No more than four centimetres long and three wide, front of the hand – palm towards you so to speak, and the motif tattooed on the palm of the recipient’s right hand. It’s a sign of membership . . . I’m thinking that they may have been priests in times gone by, or scholars, but also bodyguards perhaps.”

  Mubarakar raised his eyebrows. “You have seen someone that bears this mark?”

  Richard nodded. “Two men! One very old and one middle aged . . . in his forties.” Richard rubbed his chin. “Actually, so have you, Professor – but you didn’t realise it at the time.”

  “When? When did I miss this honour . . . this opportunity of a lifetime?” Mubarakar looked surprised and sounded annoyed.

  Richard, bemused by Professor Mubarakar’s hurt, looked quizzically at him. “A briefing in the British Embassy in Khartoum, May 2050, the twenty-fifth to be precise . . . you were in London with Admiral Hughes, but present through a video link.”

  “I remember, how could I not – a hologram of the dead!”

  “Correct – that of Professor Simpson-Carter. Madame Vallogia and her companion were present at that briefing if you recall. Actually, he was more an aide de camp. He was asked to leave at one point for security reasons, but was granted a reprieve.”

  “Him!”

  Richard nodded again. “Asharf Saeed Makkoum.”

  “And the other?”

  “Adulis . . . the old city, you know, present-day Eritrea. In the museum there, probably the oldest of its kind in the world, just the most amazing place. The building was constructed on foundations dating back two thousand years I was told, to the Aksumite Empire. Actually, it was more an archive than a museum. The man I’m speaking about was the Chief Curator there . . . Banou . . . Banou was his name.” Richard shook his head as if in awe. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he is, or was, the oldest man in the world.”

  Mubarakar rubbed his brow thoughtfully. He seemed to hesitate. Richard could see that he knew something of this matter. “You have been privileged, honoured, to be in the presence of such men, Richard,” said Mubarakar, his tone a mixture of solemnity and envy.

  Richard shrugged. “I’m sure. But who are they, Professor? Really, it’s important.”

  “I have found evidence of this order, or brotherhood, as you call it. In fact, several times during my career has this been the case. But I have never spoken of it. This is the first time. It has been my lifetime belief that no one else knew of this matter.”

  “Why have you kept this to yourself, Professor?”

  “Not because the evidence was uncorroborated – much in archaeology is unsubstantiated or dismissed as mere conjecture – but because, because, there seemed to be a force at work . . .” Mubarakar stopped short, seemingly unable to put his interpretation into words.

  “Go on,” encouraged Richard, gently.

  “I have also seen this sign you speak of – the open hand,” said Mubarakar, nodding. “It has plagued my reasoning on many occasions over the years.” />
  “Where, exactly?”

  Mubarakar shrugged. “In lost tombs . . . once in the Great Pyramid of Khufu, but there I hid it beneath a coat of plaster – a treatment we use to preserve frescoes.” He breathed in deeply. “Also here in Alexandria. Here, Richard . . . ! Gateway to the great sea state.” Mubarakar’s eyes turned misty.

  Richard was not going to pursue the Atlantis theme, that was for another time. He needed information on the brotherhood. The Professor called it an “Order”. Was that significant? Richard wondered. In any case, he needed to contact them by the most expeditious means possible. “They are highly secretive, Professor. Those that remain of this . . . ‘Ancient Order’,” he continued. “Rosicrucians, like the Masons – only they have no influence anymore. Over the centuries they have faded away, become insignificant, lost in time . . . like all those early civilisations I suppose.” Richard paused, thoughtfully. “But Asharf Makkoum still has a purpose, a duty in fact. He is a protector!”

  Mubarakar looked at Richard but remained silent. A stillness hung heavy over them – like a spiritual awareness, quite different to the innocent air of story recital, as if they spoke of the unspeakable.

  “What do you know of their symbol, Professor?” Richard asked, purposefully.

  “I have learnt this from my work, Richard, but I must emphasise that there is no proof – nor do I seek it. Never have I pursued enlightenment on this subject.”

  Richard leaned forward a little more in anticipation; it was a subconscious response, his widening eyes beckoning Mubarakar.

  “The five digits represent the five senses – sight, smell, touch, hearing and taste – but the shape, the way the hand is portrayed, also represents a number – the number six! Next was a clenched fist – the number seven. It was part of a system of measurement used by the ancient Egyptians of the First Dynasty. But I found this system to be derived from much earlier meanings.”

  “What, Professor? What was the meaning – the relevance of the open hand, the number six?”

  “The sixth sense, of course . . . thought!”

  “Thought?”

  “Telepathy, my boy.”

  Richard flopped back in his chair and considered the remark. He recalled an instance in Mauritius a few years earlier, when he, Asharf and Naomi were together – Asharf did seem to know of Naomi’s feelings even though they were in different rooms. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Six represents the sum of the emotions, the living energy; it lies in a different direction to the five apparent senses, but is part of them. It interacts but is also opposed. The mark of the hand has its roots in antiquity, Richard. It was a symbol copied by many cultures, particularly those with some degree of isolation, unrelated peoples, the Aborigines of Australia, the Aztecs and Incas of South America and the native Indians of North America, for example. Contact was thought impossible due both to distance and historical period. And there is one other thing.” Mubarakar paused, and his eyes narrowed as his focus drifted. To Richard he seemed to be corroborating information, connecting instances from a lifetime of discovery. Mubarakar came to his senses, held up his own hand and looked Richard in the eye. “These writings, Richard,” he pointed with his other index finger, “on the palm of each and every person’s hand . . . the life line, the line of fate, the lines of head and heart, will and logic.” He drew breath again. “The fingers of Mercury, Saturn, Jupiter and Apollo . . . this subject, the field of palmistry, such things as these are ancient crafts indeed!”

  Richard nodded in agreement; he recalled Naomi’s explanation of the life force, each person’s book of life, and the ‘aura’ as she called it. “Do you know of anyone who is a member of this order, Professor?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I do not! In my life I have never been so blessed. Why this enlightenment now, Richard? This is my question to you. Why do you seek them?”

  Richard looked down at his lap and then back at the Professor; he shifted uneasily. “Madame Vallogia is missing. She was living in a convent near Paris and seemed content to spend most of her time there – until two weeks ago, that is. Somebody found her. There was a conversation. The next day she packed her things and left. No explanation, nothing. And she arranged for the Ark to be collected, too. Even though she knew that the agreement with London was for it to remain in the convent – with no mention of it either, secure and secret. That’s unlike Naomi. I’ve tried every number I have for her but with no luck. When I landed here I used my Level Five security authorisation to contact the Egyptian Secret Service, their MI9 equivalent – Asharf Makkoum held the position of Field Operative. It seems he’s done a runner, just disappeared, a little over a week ago. I don’t like it, Professor. I’m worried for Madame Vallogia – her safety – and that’s putting it mildly. I think someone has used Asharf to get to her; threatened her with his life . . . whatever. Like you, she is a Master of the Antiquities. I think someone is looking for information. I think the Ark is the key, and that artefact is the most coherent link we have to the Kalahari crystals. I think there’s trouble brewing, Professor . . .”

  At that moment there was a barely audible knock on the door. It opened and a kindly looking Arabic man, probably in his sixties, walked in carrying a large silver tray. He looked smart and very ‘old school’ in his uniform – white cotton trousers and shirt with a dark patterned waistcoat, a green silk bowtie and black polished leather shoes. “Put it here on this table, Ashai,” said Mubarakar in English, pointing. He moved his gaze to Richard. “Ashai’s name means ‘abundant’ in Egyptian; he’s been with me longer than I can remember.” Ashai’s skin was weather-worn, and as he smiled deep lines gathered around his eyes. Richard gestured his gratitude at the sight of two generously sized sesame seed cakes on individual plates.

  After he had closed the door behind him, Professor Mubarakar poured out two more cups of mint tea and added a teaspoonful of honey to each. “Of course you could be wrong and she is attending to other duties – do we know if she has other duties in Cairo?” He replaced the lid on the honey pot. “You must be wary of drawing undue attention to her if this is the case.” Mubarakar was serious. He stirred the cup closest to him in one direction and then the other, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and then he looked up at Richard. “It is likely that members of this ‘Order of the Hand’ that we have spoken of can communicate with each other. This being the case, you must contact the museum curator – Banou, you called him. He may be able to cast light on Asharf Makkoum’s fate. If indeed he has been abducted. That may be the only way you will find Madame Vallogia. I suggest you wait. Although one cannot see it, the Moon shifts from Waxing Gibbous to Full. In four days the transition will be complete – this may have relevance to Madame Vallogia. This being the case, we have time tomorrow to discuss the real reason for your visit.” Mubarakar sighed deeply. He looked and felt tired. “But now I must retire. Late nights are not good for me – I am too old. In the morning, after a good Egyptian breakfast, we will discuss what has been found here in Alexandria.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Thinking Time

  South Carolina USA

  Smallville – same day 20:43 Eastern Standard Time

  There were two other people in the black sedan with Miss Abbey Hennessy as it drew up outside a clapperboard house in what would ordinarily would be leafy suburbia. Only here, as with most of the eastern states of America, the North Atlantic weather extended inland further than it should, and that meant blowing fog in the mornings that only loosened into transparent mist much later in the day. However, more often these days, mid-afternoon brought a let-up in precipitation of any kind and that allowed, to some extent anyway, a fleeting return to normality. Nevertheless, by evening, as the temperature fell again, fog seemed to peel itself from beneath the low, dragging cloud and fall to Earth, spreading and infiltrating like crawling tentacles.

  Abbey felt a sudden chill as she climbed from the relative comfort of the back seat and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was not
a soul to be seen, although she was conscious of curtains being edged aside in several neighbouring houses. The wind blew stronger for a moment, an unexpected flurry, which lifted her coat above her knees and deposited moisture on it in the form of tiny droplets. Children had been playing in the street earlier that day she noticed, as three mountain bikes had been abandoned on the sidewalk along with a football and a baseball bat.

  The car on the drive of Number 9 Windy Arbor had clearly been washed that day too; its dark paintwork gleamed in the glow of a security light that was mounted high on the two-storey building. In fact, when compared to others on nearby houses, this light was unusually bright, making the house with its streaky white paintwork stand out. But the garden was drab, washed-out and bereft of colour – that was apparent even in the semi-darkness.

  Agent Horowitz of the Central Investigation Bureau pulled open his dark coat in order to expose his shoulder holster. He adjusted his classic Trilby-type hat and watched cautiously from the front passenger seat of the nostalgic-looking Lincoln Continental Electrodrive. The heavy vehicle sat bathed in stripy shadows beneath the branches of a large but near-naked maple tree. The other agent escorted Miss Hennessy along the path towards the front door of the house and, on arrival, he promptly skulked off to the left, to find some cover.

  Abbey, whose long silk scarf spilled out over her shoulders, looked to be an unusually tall woman on account of the slimming effect her well-fitted, calf-length, fine woollen coat gave and also her fashionable high heels. She exuded an air of capability as she dwelt on the doorstep, cast her eyes towards the half-concealed agent and then rang the doorbell. Moments later a light came on inside the house to be quickly followed by the inner door being tentatively opened. A man, probably in his sixties, peered through the fly screen of the more flimsy outer door. Abbey showed her identity badge with its 3D image and her holographic passport card. The man, gesturing in a compliant kind of way, unlocked and opened the door. Abbey gave a brief nod to the agent and stepped inside. “Mr Smith, I presume,” she said, in her refined English accent.