by A J Marshall
“I think so. And I intend to find them.”
“Asharf Makkoum is Niramyer to us in the Order,” said Banou, nodding his understanding of Richard’s sentiment. And then he raised a bony finger and pointed it at the closed wooden door. “Please . . . leave me for a short while, I am not practised, I will need to . . . chant a little and then try.”
Richard stood to leave.
“Brother Abijah will attend to your needs; he will bring more food.” With that Banou rang a small bell on his desk and moments later the door opened.
An African man with short, curly, white hair, dressed in the habit of a monk, turned and led Richard into another room. Richard sat down in a comfortable chair where there was a fire burning and agreed to another cup of black tea. He smiled at the man when the drink arrived.
The short, ageing man, who for no apparent reason had pulled his hood up, subsequently spent several minutes looking out through a leaded glass window. At one point he stood on a wooden dining chair and used an old ship’s telescope, which was on the window sill, to focus more closely on various points of interest that seemed beyond his gaze. Presently, he turned and spoke to Richard; he seemed concerned. “There is an unusual commotion outside,” he said in deep tones of perfect English. “The militia who invade our land seem agitated; there are lights,” he warned. “Are you with anyone?”
Richard nodded.
“The problem is not here but by the harbour – do you have . . . arrangements by the harbour?”
Richard nodded again. “My accomplice is down there. We are to meet a boat later. He’s . . . well he’s not very experienced at this sort of thing.”
The man shrugged. “They are always suspicious of us here in the scriptorium if someone new or unidentified is seen in the old town – there is no reason for an ‘outsider’ to be here. You must understand that these soldiers have little tolerance and their officers are offensive. They think that we are responsible for the unwanted tourists, the prying eyes, or perhaps foreign spies! In truth, no one ever comes here. I am sorry, but there may be trouble when you leave.”
Richard clasped his forehead in his hand and began rubbing his temples. “That’s all I need,” he said.
Just then the door to the room opened and Banou stepped in. He looked pale and drawn. He sat down in the high-backed chair opposite Richard’s and drew a deep breath. He let the heat from the fire warm him a little before speaking. “It is done – I have word,” he said calmly, but in the firelight he looked exhausted.
Richard instinctively glanced up at the other man.
Banou reached out and put a hand on Richard’s knee in a reassuring way. “We are all friends here,” he said.
“Where, then . . . ? Where is he . . . ? Banou!” Richard became agitated.
“He does not know where he is; only that he was forcibly taken and blindfolded. He left Cairo on an aeroplane – a small aeroplane; it was a narrow seat and he could not sit upright. The flight was about three hours. Madame Vallogia is with him – she came several days later – but not the Ark. He does not know where the Ark is. He thinks that almost a full cycle of the moon has passed since he was seized.”
“He has no knowledge of where he was taken – the town, the country . . . nothing? Damn!” Richard shook his head with disappointment. Then he contained himself; Banou had already wrought a miracle.
Banou shook his head. “He remains confused,” he added.
“What about Madame Vallogia? Is she hurt . . . ? Is she okay?”
“Madame Vallogia is well, but for how long he is uncertain. Niramyer says that their captives mean to experiment with her – her mind. They were visited by three men, perhaps two days ago; one was European and the other two are American. They asked questions and attached things to her head. They want information about her duties and things relating to the Ark, perhaps the old ways. Somehow they have knowledge of who she is.”
Richard’s face became grave. For some inexplicable reason he thought of Karl Rhinefeld, and their previous encounter. Rhinefeld was a trained interrogator as well as a murderer. Richard knew the man had no scruples. He hailed from Europe, East Germany, and was definitely back on the scene. Richard rubbed his brow in a troubled manner. Rhinefeld had previously worked for the Spheron Corporation. He hoped to God that he was wrong, but he feared for Naomi’s and Asharf’s safety. He looked hard at Banou. A burning log crackled in the fire. In his mind Richard searched for ideas about a rescue. He desperately needed more information about Asharf’s location. The room fell silent.
“Madame Vallogia has knowledge of some local landmarks,” Banou continued after a while. “This might help, might it not? She arrived at a large glass building in the daylight.”
“That’s it, Banou.” Richard stood. “Please, tell me everything Asharf said that she saw. Every detail.”
“It is not safe to leave by the front,” said Banou, slamming the heavy wooden door closed. “The militia are here. They are looking for you!”
“Nor is the back door safe!” shouted the white-haired curator running back into the hall. The building is surrounded.
“Upstairs then?” proposed Richard, pulling his balaclava back over his head.
Banou shook his head. “You will be trapped. The building is high and there is no way off the roof.”
Banou looked at Abijah. No words passed between them but an understanding did and immediately Abijah scurried away down a side hall only to disappear moments later into an anteroom.
“Follow me, there is one other way,” Banou said, and he moved quickly to the stairs that led down into the cellars.
Richard counted four landings and five flights and the deeper they went the more musty and overpowering grew the smell. At the bottom, in the bowels of the building, the wooden treads were near rotten. They waited in silence.
Abijah arrived carrying an object that was concealed in a green plastic bag. He was out of breath and as he negotiated the final flight of stairs – where they were damp and mouldy – he was careful to keep a steadying hand on the balustrade. When he was down, he seemed to cradle the object preciously in both hands. He nodded at Banou and smiled faintly. Banou turned towards Richard.
“Behind this door is an ancient tunnel,” Banou explained, in a solemn manner. “It leads directly to the sea. There is a narrow beach and nearby is the harbour. The tunnel forms part of the original foundations . . . when Adulis was the greatest port in Africa. It has not been used for, perhaps, two hundred years and at the other end is a stone wheel. It cannot be moved without a special key; without such a key it is impenetrable.” Banou gestured to the object being cradled by Abijah. “There is a mechanism built by the old people and long forgotten. Only two keys remain: the one Abijah carries and one other. They can be used only once, you will see. Abijah will close the great door behind you when you are safely outside. You will not be able to return by that way; you may not be able to return at all. Do you understand, my friend?”
Richard nodded. Banou pulled a ring of keys from beneath his djellaba. He used two smaller examples to unlock padlocks that secured metal straps across the thick wooden door and a third – a heavy patterned bronze key – to release the mortise lock. The enormous hinges were dry and corroded and the door took the effort of all three men to open it – even then it was levered only just enough for Richard and the smaller Abijah to slip through.
Tucked inside his leather belt, Abijah had the self-charging photoelectric torch that Richard had given to Banou on his previous visit. Abijah withdrew it and switched it on; the effect was to more than double the brightness given off by the single overhead bulb that hung down from the rafters, and it made the men squint momentarily before Abijah directed it down the tunnel.
Banou looked at Richard in a kindly manner and put a hand on his forearm. “I fear this will be the last time that we shall meet. You must be cautious, my young friend; the world changes quickly and not for the better. I will hear of your time and what you do. Now, y
ou must find Madame Vallogia and Niramyer . . . or should I say your good friend Asharf. Find them before they are harmed – God is with you.”
Richard looked down at the old man and covered his hand. “Thank you for your help, Banou. I will find them, you can be sure of that. And we will drink tea together again, you’ll see.”
With that, Richard crouched forwards and followed Abijah into the tunnel. Banou watched the two men scramble along the passageway until it narrowed and changed direction; after that, the light and the sound of footsteps faded.
Banou turned to find somewhere to sit and wait for Abijah’s return. As he did, he whispered, “You are wrong young warrior. We will not meet again, for I see red sand beneath your feet. Be prosperous and of long life . . . Insha, Allah.”
Richard estimated the tunnel to be at least 300 metres long. For the most part it had been circular, like a rabbit burrow, but in places, where granite seams had been unavoidable, it had narrowed to perhaps twice his shoulder width. And it was low in the most part, built for a much shorter race of people. He had scraped his head on several occasions but his balaclava had provided some protection. Abijah, who had led at a surprisingly spritely pace, suddenly pulled up as the tunnel opened into a small cave. Richard was covered in cobwebs when he emerged and the smell there, he noticed, seemed particularly pungent and acidic.
The cave was more than twice Richard’s height and he was pleased to be able to stand straight. He flexed his shoulders, while Abijah examined a huge circular granite door that effectively plugged the cave entrance. It was clear that the old man had never been this far either.
“Presumably the sea is close by – on the other side,” Richard whispered. The hollow echo of his words circulated the cave and then faded to nothing.
Abijah appeared to ignore Richard’s remark while he continued his search, and then suddenly he found what he was looking for and made an appreciative grunting noise. He looked up. “The sea is not far, yes. Soon you will be beside it.” He withdrew the object that he had carried so carefully from the plastic bag and offered it to the granite wall.
Richard moved quickly to see what Abijah was doing and what he saw took him by complete surprise. Indeed, it rendered him speechless, for Abijah held a life-like model of a hand – a right hand. It was a small, petite hand, like a woman’s hand. It had a grainy structure and appeared to be made of coagulated desert-coloured sand, but hardened by baking or some similar process. Beneath, on the underside, the palm and fingers were dyed blue.
Only as Abijah slowly and very cautiously offered the hand to the cave wall, to a position adjacent to the granite wheel, did Richard notice the receptacle. It was an impression in the stone, an exact duplication of the hand masterfully carved in the stone face. Immediately Richard recalled his time with Naomi and Asharf in the Pyramid of Khufu. It was in May 2050 and he hadn’t known her very long. That was how she had gained entrance into the great pyramid’s hollow centre – into the Temple of Osiris: the right of passage and its ancient secrets being her hereditary privilege. She had placed her right hand into such a hollow – a replica carved in a concealed corner of the King’s Chamber – and as a result an unknown granite door had rotated – pivoting at its centre in a most ingenious way. He recalled the story Naomi had told him of how her mother had taken her each year to that chamber, and offered her hand to the recess, until on her eighteenth birthday she had come of age and the door had opened.
A sudden, loud grinding noise jolted Richard from his thoughts. The door had begun to move and as it did the model being cradled in Abijah’s hands simply crumbled to nothing – sand ran through his fingers like water.
“Quickly,” Abijah urged. “The mechanism will move the stone gate back after it reaches its extremity; I cannot stop it. You must go now.” Abijah directed the beam of his torch at the ground, causing the shadows of Richard’s legs to appear spindly and long, like a giant crane fly.
The smell of the sea, the taste of salt and the wind in his face sharpened Richard’s senses. He stepped outside and became aware of the surf lapping on the beach. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he heard the sound of distant gun fire. Barely was there time to shake Abijah’s hand and nod his appreciation when the great rock – which had a natural appearance on the outside – began to move in the opposite direction. Within moments there was a dull thud and all movement stopped. The entrance was sealed, perhaps for another century or more.
Richard ran quickly but awkwardly along the beach towards the harbour. He could see torch lights flashing and occasionally he heard the sound of men shouting. Sporadic gunfire still crackled on the wind, but it was some way off. It was nearly 500 metres to the harbour wall and when Richard arrived the area seemed deserted. It was a starless sky and black as before, but light from the town cast a strange ambiance over the area and, in one direction, despite the thick cloud, the moon’s eerie glow filtered through. Silently, and like a lizard in his tight-fitting suit, Richard climbed the wall. On top he got his bearings and realised that he was close to the area where he and Thomas had come ashore. Using the shadows, he made his way along the wharf towards the rendezvous position.
After a few minutes of darting and hiding and then, as he progressed towards the outer harbour wall, surreptitious dashes between bollards – because the buildings and the cranes had stopped and the quayside was all but featureless – Richard realised that the distant noise of vehicles, and the unseen commotion of men, appeared to be getting nearer. When not far from the agreed rendezvous position, Richard heard the sound of a vehicle screech to a halt. It was unnervingly close. Quickly he spun on his heels to hear the sound of men shouting; the clarity of their words tensed his body for flight. Throwing all caution to the wind, he sprinted towards the pickup point. Halfway, a figure emerged who was clearly Thomas – for who else do I know with an illuminated face. Thomas pulled him behind a container and they both sank to the ground.
“We might be out of luck, Richard,” Thomas said, as Richard pulled a leg up and crouched low beside him on one knee, as if ready to sprint off again. Thomas had turned his face illumine down so that his features were barely discernible.
“I can’t understand it,” Richard replied, bobbing up to see how the militia were progressing.
“I’m afraid that might be my fault,” Thomas said in an apologetic tone. “I saw a light flashing out at sea, directly east; I thought it was the pickup boat.”
“What!” Richard exclaimed. He pressed the backlight on his chronometer and checked the time. “But the rendezvous is not for twenty minutes yet – when did you do that?”
Thomas morphed his expression into one of embarrassment. “More than an hour ago . . . I didn’t think.”
“You bloody idiot! You’ve brought them down on us. That’s the first rule. You never reply to a signal unless it’s precisely at the stipulated time . . . They probably run up and down the coast in an electric boat every night, just waiting to see who they can catch – only we are not smugglers, are we? Ugh . . . you idiot!”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry! You just may be. I knew I should have come on my own.” Richard bobbed up and down again. “And that gun fire, a while back, what was that?”
“Artillery . . . fired out to sea, presumably to scare off any shipping.”
Richard shook his head with exasperation. “The submarine won’t hang around, that’s for sure, he’s gone, well on his way back to the Gulf of Aden by now. I can’t believe you did that.” Richard bobbed up, assessed the situation and then dropped down again. “They are coming over to give this area a thorough sweep. There is a lorry load of them – twelve, maybe fifteen; we could be in trouble here.”
The sound of dogs barking filled the night air and the shouting grew louder.
“I don’t understand it,” continued Thomas, as if in defence of his actions. “They have already run an infrared scan from over there. The boat went past twice. But they could not have sensed any heat from me; I h
ad my life support system turned down to ambient temperature.”
“They are systematically searching this whole section of coastline, don’t you understand? They know we’re here somewhere. Listen, where is your capsule?”
“Where we left it, tied up – over there,” Thomas replied, and pointed to the outermost jetty.
“We’re going for it. Follow me, and turn your system up to optimal temperature – you’re going to need all the energy you’ve got!” With that, Richard sprinted down the wharf towards the capsule with Thomas in hot pursuit.
“Jump in and position the oars. Get ready to row your batteries flat!” Richard ordered. He checked behind. A group of militia were approaching at a fast walking pace. The beams from their torches probed in all directions; but not, as yet, in theirs.
The soldier’s voices grew louder. Richard could now hear the officer shouting clear directives. The dogs suddenly grew excited and began barking incessantly – they had picked up Richard’s scent.
At the quayside Richard released the securing lanyard and, holding it tight, he climbed down the wall and slipped quietly into the water, all the while pulling the makeshift canoe towards him. When he had his arms over the side, he whispered: “Turn around and row. Do it now – but quietly; they haven’t seen us yet!”
In the darkness and taking care not to splash the water, Thomas manoeuvred the capsule about-face as Richard carefully rolled into the restricted hollow of the short dugout. With Richard bent double at the front end, Thomas began long, steady strokes. They quickly dissolved into the dark night; the sea swell, thankfully, was slight. Richard watched the jetty carefully. It was some minutes before the soldiers got to where they had launched themselves. The men shone their torches aimlessly out to sea and down the jetty looking for clues, but Richard and Thomas were out of their range and soon their ill-disciplined clamour and the barks of frustrated dogs faded.
Richard directed Thomas using the compass in his chronometer. They would head north by north-east for twenty kilometres or so and then turn right to track a course a little north of east. After approximately sixty kilometres they should make landfall on the islands that formed the Dahlak Archipelago and, hopefully, if his calculations were right, Dahlak el Kebir, the largest island in the group. He recalled it as the chief port for pearl fishing in the southern part of the Red Sea and as once being a military base used by the Ethiopians. There he would charter a motorboat to take them to the Farasan Islands and beyond to the coast of Saudi Arabia, or better still, a light aeroplane that would land at Jizan Airport – he had world dollars enough to tempt even the most reluctant seafarer or private pilot.
