by A J Marshall
Over to the right someone shouted. Richard turned. Marquenie was already on his way and Richard set off in pursuit. A heated conversation followed between Marquenie and a policeman; eventually Marquenie shook his head – apparently in disgust. He looked over his shoulder at Richard. “Some men have escaped from the back of the building. The security cameras picked them up on subterranean level five and again a few minutes later on the lower car park level – that’s level minus two. An outside camera caught them running from the building. There’s no more sign of them.”
Richard was indifferent. “How many?” he asked.
“Four! One was oriental looking and one had a bad limp – probably a prosthetic limb. There’s more on video if you want, but we should go down to level five immediately – we have something!”
“Let’s go!” Richard agreed.
There was a brooding silence of anticipation in the elevator. Richard’s eyes were glued to the display as the numbers counted down. The roomy compartment arrived at the subterranean level with no more indication than the digit ‘S5’ appearing above the door; as it slid back an officer was waiting.
“This way,” he said in English.
They stepped into a corridor that was white and pristine and longer than expected. Walking purposefully the group passed numerous rooms on either side. Inside some, where the doors were open, Richard could see laboratory equipment. Other corridors that crossed at right angles to the main thoroughfare looked identical. It was a labyrinth of science: a place for experimentation and development. As they walked, two other men joined the group. Richard looked at one of them. The man removed his dark blue coat to reveal a white shirt, black tie and a creaseless white jacket that was not quite mid-thigh length. He looked like a doctor but his ID indicated a government department.
“What goes on here?” Richard quizzed.
“You don’t want to know,” was the curt reply. The man spoke English with a neutral accent and he glanced disapprovingly at Richard. He was hard-faced, in his thirties, and had a no-nonsense manner.
“Actually I do,” pressed Richard.
The man suddenly turned left and headed off down another corridor; the group followed him. Richard caught up and stared. “Well?”
“Spheron make drugs. That means they need to experiment. They do some of it here . . . secretly.”
“So you didn’t know about this facility?”
“We know of their primary laboratories – they are mainly in Europe. But a few facilities escape government monitoring because they are in isolated regions of the world. This one we didn’t know about.”
“Right under your nose.” Richard shrugged. “Not so good then.”
The man glanced at Richard again, before his attention was drawn to a door opening on his left. Emanating from inside were shrieks and shrills of animals. The group stopped abruptly while the man had a brief conversation with a colleague who had stepped from the room. Richard peered inside. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with cages. A few were empty but most contained a small monkey. The primates leapt and screamed and some pulled wildly at the mesh that enclosed them. Breaking off from the conversation, the man closed the door, shutting in the noise, and strode off again.
“I thought experimentation on animals was banned years ago?” Richard queried.
“Correct.”
“So?”
“Spheron breaks the law – the larger and more powerful the company, the fewer scruples they seem to have.”
Richard nodded his agreement. “Where are we going, then?”
The man stopped. He turned to address Richard and also Marquenie and Matisse. “Spheron have been experimenting on humans,” he said bluntly. “Apparently there is a primordial centre in our brains that once may have allowed some form of telepathy. Although long since redundant the centre seems to be more susceptible to stimulation in people with psychic or clairvoyant abilities. Spheron was working on a drug that might allow this ability to be rekindled – in everyone.”
“Surely that’s impossible!” Marquenie exclaimed, in disbelief.
“The data that we have collected so far indicates some success, but only with people who already possessed a gift – a natural ability. A drug is still some way off – probably impossible – but that hasn’t stopped their research. You can’t believe what they have been doing.”
“What about my friends . . . the people I’m looking for?” Richard interjected. He was becoming agitated.
The man raised his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said in a calming voice. “We have found them and they are well, although the gentleman has been subjected to some sort of electroencephalography.”
Richard breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“It seems that your friends were due to participate in a particularly archaic programme of experimentation, one that was to begin soon. It seems, for them at least, that we are in time.”
Richard turned to Marquenie. “I’d like to leave with them immediately, if you don’t mind. I do have somewhere to go – until support arrives tomorrow morning.”
Marquenie nodded. “I concur – that is my brief. I am expecting Peter Rothschild here in an hour or two. You can also expect a visit from him a little later.”
Richard pulled his telephonic pager from his pocket and read the text on the small display. “You want the address?”
Marquenie raised his hand to say no. “Some things remain secret even during these times of entente cordiale. Safe houses are none of my business.” He raised a wry smile.
The black Partisan estate drew slowly to a halt outside an impressive town house. The street had several buildings of similar nineteenth-century architecture, although Number Eleven was, perhaps, the least ostentatious. In terms of energy allocation the street appeared unusually privileged; every other lamp-post was lit. As a result, the scene had a misty ambiance that was bathed in winter’s damp chill. Defoliated trees cast shadows, as did lamp-posts; they were stretched and spindly. Metal railings with spearhead-tops cast rows of elongated bars on the pavement, as in a jail, and stone steps created secret corners where dark imaginings lurked. It reminded Richard of paintings he had seen of London town during the Victorian era; gas lights and fog and long buttoned-up coats. Richard glanced upwards into the murky darkness and then back along the street. The drizzle had eased but water on the flagstones, particularly at the foot of each lit lamp-post, made the pavement reflective and shiny.
Richard, from the front seat of the estate, peered up at the façade. Several steps led up to the front door and there was an ornate iron balustrade on each side. Through the windows the house was dark and appeared unoccupied.
“This is it?” Richard enquired, somewhat surprised. The Poirot character looked across and gave a sharp nod. “Who lives here?” Richard asked, scanning the building again.
“Who has not?” replied the driver, seemingly equally surprised to have arrived in this quarter. “Over the years . . . royalty, ministers, embassy officials . . . Thirty years ago most were sold to oil-rich leaders from the east – Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan – but few come here.” The man craned his neck to look up at Number Eleven. “This one . . . I don’t know.”
“Good. Well thanks very much. I’m most grateful to you for the information.” Richard glanced at Asharf then turned to look at Naomi. “You had better wake him,” he said quietly and he smiled faintly to reassure her. Then he gave a nod to the driver and climbed from the car.
Asharf was unsure on his feet and so Richard helped him up the steps by putting a supporting arm under his shoulder. At the top he leaned against the wall in a bedraggled, exhausted way. Apart from reddened, puffy eyes from a lack of sleep, Naomi appeared relatively well. Richard put a foot on the doorstep and pressed to check that the door was locked. Then he held the knocker and pulled himself onto the step in order to look through the glazed fanlight. The hall was illuminated to some extent by the streetlights, as there were internal doors open. The house appeared deserted. R
ichard checked his pager for the security code and subsequently tapped six digits into the keypad that was set at chest height to the right of the door frame. Instantly, a number of solenoids were heard to operate and the door flipped open a few centimetres. Adjacent to the keypad there was a small, domed-type closed-circuit television camera and inside a tiny pinprick of light illuminated. In the hallway there was a small, glowing orange light mounted on the wall and Richard pressed it to turn on the main light. As he closed the door the estate car drove off into the night. Then he checked that the solenoid draw-bolts were in place.
“So how have you been, Naomi? I’ll confess I’ve missed you.”
“I have been fine, really. Until this, my life was very quiet.” Naomi paused and looked Richard in the eye. “You are never far from my thoughts, Richard. That will always be the case.”
Richard forced a smile at the implications of sharing their feelings. They sat in a large bedroom suite on the first floor. Richard had closed the long drapes and only two table lights illuminated the room. In the sitting area there were two comfortable couches upholstered in a beige patterned material, and a contemporary coffee table in white ash was positioned centrally between them. On the table was a crystal vase. The antique wooden floors were covered in expensive-looking bordered rugs – some were plain, but the one in the bedroom area was floral. Naomi had put Asharf to bed in the neighbouring room and now she sat on a couch, restless but relieved. The house had a mustiness about it from being unoccupied, but it was clear that it was serviced regularly and beds in several of the rooms remained made-up.
There were no provisions in the house, not that Richard could find anyway, except for a packet of English Breakfast teabags, a jar of freeze-dried coffee and some dried milk in a plastic container. He had also discovered an unopened bottle of cognac in a cabinet in the bedroom and there were a number of crystal glasses, but he had decided to stick to the coffee; Naomi had preferred tea with no milk. He sat opposite her and sipped his drink and tried not to stare.
“Only three times in my life have I missed the Full Moon Ceremony,” Naomi said, breaking a period of expectant silence. She spoke quietly and with restraint. “Another occasion was when my mother died – although I made a dedication to Osiris a few days later, when I returned to Giza. I shall do the same this time. Only on this occasion I shall dedicate a prayer to you, Richard, for saving my life once again.”
“Seeing you is good enough, Naomi. Leave it at that, why don’t you?”
Another period of silence followed. Richard checked the time – it was almost ten. “I expect Peter Rothschild will have arrived at the Spheron building by now, but he’ll be busy enough – we won’t see him until the morning.”
Naomi nodded.
“Actually, I sent Rothschild an abrive a while ago,” Richard continued. “I’ve requested a flight for you as soon as possible – to take you back to Cairo. Abbey Hennessy replied while you were with Asharf. She says that there is a government aircraft departing Strasbourg at midday. It’s going to Amman, but you can drive from there. She’ll make all the arrangements.”
Naomi nodded again. “Our time together will be short,” she said quietly. “I feel that I should also sleep, but I will not waste these precious hours.” Naomi looked under her eyelashes at Richard. Her lips parted to speak but Richard spoke first.
“What were they planning, Naomi, those men who got away?”
“I do not know, but somehow they had heard of my duties, my role as a servant in the Temple of Osiris . . . who I am.” She looked up at Richard and shook her head. “Not all . . . but enough.”
Richard nodded his understanding. “There was a formal report, after we found the Ark. It circulated the ISSF Security Council and the British Cabinet; Rothschild had a hand in it, I know. It was Top Secret. But there is a mole in the ISSF operation; Rothschild thinks that the Americans are responsible. Some of the information must have been leaked. I’m sorry about it.”
“No matter, Richard; it is over now.”
“Will you go back to the convent?”
“Of course, it is my home; I have found peace there. And I intend finishing my treatment.”
Richard looked surprised. “Treatment? I had no idea . . . What . . . ?”
“I have been visiting a clinic in Paris. I do not know why I should speak of it, but with you Richard, I do not seem myself.”
Richard sensed an underlying sadness in her voice. “Why? A clinic? Is there something . . . ? I mean, are you ill?”
“Only what you already know.” Naomi shrugged. “I cannot allow my line to end without trying everything possible.”
Richard looked puzzled.
“I told you, Richard, although it seems a lifetime ago now. I cannot have a child naturally. The scarring you see is also within.” She put a hand on the aggressive, brown-coloured birthmark on the left side of her face and paused. “I cannot stop trying until all avenues are closed to me . . . I will not!”
Richard nodded his sympathy. He looked sad for her. “So how is it going?”
“For three years now I have been undergoing fertility treatment – the programme is on-going. I am forty-five, but there remains a chance.”
“But you told me it was impossible . . . I remember. Why subject yourself to all that? The drugs, the discomfort . . . ”
“What do you know of the discomfort, Richard? You are a man, you have no idea.”
Richard looked down at his lap. He paused, collecting his thoughts. “I know of it, Naomi,” he said in a whisper. “Rachel . . . well, she’s having help, too. It makes her feel unwell, short-tempered . . . It’s difficult at home . . .”
“I am sorry for you both.”
“Yeah, me too. But they make predictions, don’t they? What are they saying, Naomi?”
Naomi sighed. “No matter how remote, I must keep on trying – so much depends on it.”
“The results then – so far?”
There was a silent pause as Naomi considered the question. “Why do I seem able to tell you my most personal secrets?” She looked Richard in the eye. “They have not managed to match a donor, although I have become fertile.” She looked embarrassed.
“Then it’s just a matter of time,” Richard said encouragingly.
“They have identified an abnormality with my DNA. They are wrong to call it that, of course, because my line goes back to the old people – a direct line. Each High Priestess passing down unique traits.”
“You mean your hand, for example – the size and shape and your finger prints . . . ?”
“It is the key to the temple.”
Richard nodded. “I know that – and other places, too.”
Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “I have an unusual genetic protein, apparently,” she continued, bypassing Richard’s remark. “A strand forms a stub on my DNA. They told me that its action will prevent conception unless a similar but opposite strand is present in the donor’s DNA. Like my blood group, everything seems against me.” Her eyes welled and large tears fell onto her clasped hands.
“I’m sorry, Naomi, I shouldn’t have asked – clumsy as usual,” Richard said, standing and pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Come on . . . don’t cry.” He offered the handkerchief to Naomi.
Naomi took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. She looked up at him and smiled as he sat down again.
“Listen, Naomi, there’s something I want to ask you. It’s a wayward request, but I need your help – with your cooperation it just might be possible.”
“Of what do you speak?”
“It’s a secret, Naomi, you have to understand that. I would get into serious trouble if it got out.”
Naomi nodded and looked expectant.
“I have a crystal. I managed to smuggle it to Earth five years ago from Mars.”
“You have a crystal . . . ? Where?”
“It’s a small example. The smallest of the deposit I found. It was unaccounted for, and they searched for it
, but, well, that has all blown over.”
“Yes!” Naomi sat bolt upright.
“The crystal is in Cairo, Naomi, with Professor Mubarakar. It’s safe, but I won’t go into that now.” Richard paused thoughtfully. “There is a use for that crystal, a role to play; I just don’t know what it is. The old people hold the key, but their knowledge has long since been forgotten. The High Priests – like the remains of the man we found in that chamber in the Valley of the Kings – and latterly your line, were the guardians.”
“Yes, this is so. But . . .”
“You remember our time in Khartoum – four years ago?”
Naomi nodded. “I will never forget that time – we were together as one.”
“Yes. We joined in your special way, a spiritual way. The subliminal joining, you said.”
“It will always be special to me.”
“When we had finished, I mean, parted, it was very late. We didn’t talk much. I went back to my room – with a headache I might add.” Richard was perched on the edge of the couch. “You said that I had slipped deep into your subconscious – further than you had intended.”
“I remember this.”
“I never told you. We left early the next morning. The opportunity didn’t arise again.”
“You did not speak of what, Richard.”
“Well, I sensed myself falling through some sort of tunnel, through a crawling mist, and when I emerged I was at a ceremony of some kind. I knew immediately where I was, because I recognised the geography of the place!”
