by Sam Christer
Revenge is so sweet. The Holy City of Jerusalem – the place the Christians slaughtered our ancestors – is painted in their blood. It is rightfully ours again and will now remain so until the end of time.
SOLDIER TWO (shouting excitedly)
We praise you and salute you! Our greatest of generals – Salahuddin!
The lone cry from the soldier sparks a spontaneous and intoxicating chorus from the mass of soldiers.
MEN
Salahuddin! Salahuddin! Salahuddin!
SALAHUDDIN modestly acknowledges the refrain with a raised hand. To his right is NOUREDDINE, one of his most-valued generals. He is older and smaller than his master. An angry red scar, still unhealed from the last conflict, runs from his left ear down his cheek and across to where the tip of his nose used to be.
NOUREDDINE
Behold, master – these are your men, men who would die a thousand times for you. We have taken Egypt, Syria, Arabia and now Jerusalem. All of the world could soon be ours.
SALAHUDDIN (starting to walk away) God’s, Noureddine. Not ours – God’s.
NOUREDDINE (ignoring the reproach)
Stay with us, master. Share with us the moment when the blessed light of morning rises over Islam’s blossoming empire.
SALAHUDDIN (smiling)
Enjoy yourself – you have earned it. I am fit now only for my scribes, my prayers and my rest. May God be with you.
NOUREDDINE
And with you.
SALAHUDDIN exits.
The Sultan is flanked by two bodyguards – both the tallest of all his soldiers. They march with shields aloft and swords drawn. As they climb a winding stone staircase one soldier advances a step, while the other drops behind.
En route to the general’s chambers they pass great treasures looted from the countries his armies have conquered – giant statues, bronzes and pottery from the palaces of Syria and Arabia. More guards stand in pairs at each turn of corridor and a new hallway.
SALAHUDDIN pauses as the foremost soldier opens the door to his rooms. Inside stands another armed guard and two learned scribes.
SALAHUDDIN (to his escorts)
Leave me now. Return to the feasting and revive yourselves. Make the most of the last embers of celebration. May God be with you.
SOLDIERS (responding together)
And with you.
The antechamber is vast and filled with personal trophies from battle – flags, shields and pennants of those who dared stand and fight against him. Upside down, gathering dust, is a large wooden crucifix made from the wood of the so-called True Cross’, the one upon which the Christians claimed their Lord Jesus died. It was prised from the hands of a slain bishop in the aftermath of the Battle of Hattin and is spattered with blood. The arms of the cross had been used as a resting block to behead captured Christian soldiers who would not convert to Islam or were not worth releasing for ransom.
SALAHUDDIN unfastens a gold breast clasp bearing his crest and removes his cloak. He walks into an adjoining chamber where his two personal scribes are sat working. These are men who for more than a decade have travelled at his side, chronicled his rise to power and described his philosophies. The scribes stand and bow as he approaches. Both look tired but dare not yawn. They know their master’s dictation may take hours.
SALAHUDDIN
Come my wordsmiths, muster a little more life – I need your penmanship to convey the excitement of the history we are creating.
As SALAHUDDIN begins a monologue about the battles he still faces and the Jihad still to come, the camera zooms in to the flowing ink curves of the ornate Arabic writing the scribes begin to create. The lines of dictation then fade into a wide shot of sand dunes cresting a heat-shimmering horizon.
152
SAINT-JULIEN-EN-GENEVOIS
Neither of the Broussards can give a good description of the man who took Nic’s suitcase. Thin not fat. Olive-skinned – no beard. Short hair – very short. That’s the best the detective can get out of them. It could match millions of males in France and tens of millions across the Med region.
The scientist looks crestfallen. ‘If he has taken your case, then both my work and your time have been wasted.’
‘No, not completely. Erica Craxi gave me a Saint Christopher – a locket on a chain. Inside it, behind a picture of the saint, were fragments of the Shroud – I guess Craxi wanted back-up in the event something went wrong. I have sent them to Los Angeles for our lab to examine.’
Édouard sees a problem. ‘But still – you have nothing to compare them with. It is impossible for me to remember all the sequencing.’
Nic produces his BlackBerry. ‘This isn’t the best camera in the world, but I think its imaging is good enough for you to recognise the Shroud’s DNA profile.’ He opens up the media files and plays a saved video. ‘I made this footage of your profile when I was in my room at the Sheraton. I’ve already mailed it as a digital file to my own AOL account.’
The scientist squints at the tiny screen. ‘Yes, I can confirm that it is the profile I produced.’
‘Good.’ Nic shuts down the file. ‘It’s not as powerful as having the original prints but if you come back with me, you’ll be able to examine the LAPD tests and compare the results with those you produced.’
Édouard thinks it through. ‘It is possible. Yes, I am willing to do this.’
Nic thumbs through the BlackBerry’s contacts. ‘I’ll call the lab in LA and set the wheels in motion.’
153
THE SHROUD-TAMARA JACOBS
Scene 76
DAMASCUS: SALAHUDDIN’S PALACE. 1187.
EXTERIOR. Morning.
The morning after the night before. The soft pink light of dawn falls on the sand outside the palace gates. Horses’ hooves kick up dust as we see the now-familiar sight of patrolling guards riding slowly.
CUT TO
INTERIOR.
Scene 77
The grand hall is littered with men and women sleeping at long tables, on floors and entwined in seats. The remains of the great feast still strewn around them.
As the wide-angle camera tracks low, up the winding stone staircase, a dull thumping sound can be heard with increasing urgency. It is the banging of a clenched fist on wood. The sound becomes louder as the camera swoops between pairs of guards standing at each corner of the twisting corridors that lead to SALAHUDDIN’S chambers.
The giant oak and iron-studded doors to his rooms are closed. DHUL FIQAR, the Commander of the Guards, is shouting through the panels. More men hurriedly arrive. Pushing his way through the middle is GENERAL NOUREDDINE. He has come straight from bed, his garments are in disarray and he is still robing as he arrives.
NOUREDDINE
Force an entry! What are you fools waiting for? Our master could be in danger – break down the doors! Call for his surgeon.
FIQAR
Do as he says.
He looks around and then points to a stone statue of Isis taken from an Egyptian tomb.
FIQAR (cont.)
Use that false god to open the way.
It takes six soldiers to lift the giant granite representation of the Egyptian goddess. They let out a mighty cry as they run at the double doors. With a thunderous crash they break through. Several soldiers fall on impact.
NOUREDDINE
Wait!
He holds a commanding hand aloft and stops the men.
NOUREDDINE (cont.)
I, alone, will enter first.
NOUREDDINE takes a sword from the belt of a guard and steps through the splintered wood and gaping doorway into the antechamber. He pushes open the doors to the inner room.
NOUREDDINE
Sweet Muhammad! This cannot be.
The camera tilts from NOUREDDINE to the floor. It pans over the corpse of a guard – his throat has been slit and his heart punctured by a single knife wound. It focuses on the dead face, then the body of a scribe – his intestines spilled through a deep sword wound. The camera mo
ves on and stops on the iconic and now dead face of SALAHUDDIN. The shot pulls out and widens to reveal the sultan’s corpse – only now do we see the full horror that has NOUREDDINE transfixed. SALAHUDDIN has been stripped and nailed to the captured crucifix made from the wood of the True Cross. His body is a chequerboard of cuts, slashes from a knife or sword, and shards of broken glass have been beaten into his skull to create a bloody crown.
NOUREDDINE rushes to the antechamber door to prevent soldiers entering. He holds it closed and shouts through it for the Commander of the Guards.
NOUREDDINE
Dhul! Dhul, come into the chamber. The Sultan is unwell, he is asking for you.
DHUL pushes through the door. NOUREDDINE quickly closes it behind him.
NOUREDDINE (visibly shaken)
Salahuddin is dead.
FIQAR
What?
NOUREDDINE
Assassins have killed him in his chamber.
FIQAR
It is not so. Swear it is not.
NOUREDDINE
I swear by God’s holy name that it is. Come.
The General leads the Commander of the Guards through to the inner chamber. For a moment both men stand in mournful silence.
FIQAR
How can this have happened?
NOUREDDINE
A scribe is missing. He will have been an Ismaili or Christian plant. I can still smell his stench.
He looks around the room at the pools of blood and mutilated bodies.
NOUREDDINE (cont.)
He must be wounded and cannot have got far.
His eyes fall on bloody hand prints on the wall, near an open shutter the Sultan’s bed. FIQAR can tell that the General thinks this is the escape route the assassin took.
FIQAR
I will send my best men to capture him.
FIQAR starts to the door.
NOUREDDINE
Wait. Do not do that.
FIQAR stops and turns.
NOUREDDINE
There is a matter of greater urgency.
He paces before he speaks.
NOUREDDINE
We must feign an illness of our master. The Christians cannot know he is dead. The world must not know. Bring Salahuddin’s physician – we need his complicity to add face to our deception.
FIQAR leaves. NOUREDDINE picks up a sword and prises out the nails pinning Salahuddin to the crucifix. He lays the great sultan on the floor and pulls a sheet from the bed to cover the corpse. Then he kneels and prays.
FIQAR returns with physician ADHAM BAHIR. The Commander once more shuts the door to the chambers. Having done so, he pulls a dagger from behind his robe and holds it to the doctor’s throat.
FIQAR
You will do as General NOUREDDINE commands or I will cut any unwillingness from your insolent body. Do you understand me?
BAHIR tentatively nods over the blade of the knife.
FIQAR
Good.
DHUL pushes him through to where NOUREDDINE is knelt beside the corpse of SALAHUDDIN.
NOUREDDINE
Physician, bring proper linen, attend to our master’s body personally, see he is treated fittingly.
He stands aside and lets the doctor inspect SALAHUDDIN.
NOUREDDINE (cont.)
He is with God already, I know he is. I only pray I live long enough to wreak vengeance on all those who orchestrated this evil.
DHUL strides over to the body of the dead scribe, spits on him and then kicks at his head. NOUREDDINE pulls him away.
NOUREDDINE
Vent your rage another day – I need your calmness of mind this very moment. There is much work to be done.
He looks towards the doctor.
NOUREDDINE (cont.)
What say you about our Sultan? How shall we make his courtiers believe he is alive but so ill he need be confined to rest?
BAHIR
Some years ago the master was struck with afflictions of the heart. We may say with sadness that the same malady has surfaced. To avoid infection, only I must enter his chamber.
NOUREDDINE (looking pleased)
How long can this pretence be perpetrated?
BAHIR
Ten days. No more. Salahuddin is known of old to be a poor patient. Beyond such time, it is not conceivable he would not seek to rule from his chamber even if I forbade it.
NOUREDDINE
This will have to be sufficient.
He moves close to FIQAR and talks in hushed and confidential tones behind a cupped hand held to the ear of the Commander.
NOUREDDINE (cont.)
I will need to ride to Salahuddin’s wife and speak with his brothers. Their complicity must be secured as a matter of urgency.
FIQAR
I will have my most trusted men ride with you.
NOUREDDINE nods.
NOUREDDINE
And the unworthy body of this treacherous scribe?
BAHIR
I will personally see to his disposal.
NOUREDDINE
Make sure you cut his stinking soul from his body. He must spend eternity without it, burning in the fires of eternal damnation.
Mitzi’s desk phone rings. Reluctantly, she looks away from the script and hits the hands-free button.
‘Fallon.’
‘Detective, it’s Officer Fisher – Andy Fisher. I found your suspect’s car around the corner. There was a licence inside and he matches the photo ID. We have a name and address for your guy. You want me to give it you over the phone?’
‘No. Great job, Andy. I’m coming straight down.’
154
COINTRIN AIRPORT, GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
Nic’s badge is enough to swing a ride in a Swiss police car to the airport and another to take Ursula safely to the home of her diplomat friend in Geneva.
After collecting tickets from the Lufthansa desk, the detective goes straight to the restroom. He locks himself in a cubicle, lifts the ceramic toilet lid and reluctantly drops the emptied Beretta into the tank. As much as he’d like to hang on to the weapon there’s no way he can get it through the scanners. He adjusts the floating ball, checks the toilet still flushes, then heads out to the concourse.
He and Edouard barely have time to speak as they rush through check-in and then get processed in the security, customs and passport areas. They reach the departure gate and join the hundreds of passengers on the thirteen-hour flight to LA, via a connection at JFK in New York. Eventually, the 747 lumbers down the runway and levers itself into the evening sky. Once the flight has levelled out and the seatbelt signs go off, Nic will find the chief steward and get a copy of the passenger list. He wants to walk the plane and check names against faces. Only then will he feel safe and be able to think about going home and the new life awaiting him. He’s going to sail north first, up to San Francisco, then past Fort Bragg and skirt along the forest edges of Crescent City, Gold Beach and Florence. Maybe he’ll scoot across to Neah Bay and do Victoria, Richmond and Vancouver. He’ll pick up work along the way. Lose himself. Reinvent himself. Who knows?
Broussard touches his arm and brings him back to the present. ‘Do you think you will ever catch the man who murdered your writer and tried to kill us?’
Normally, Nic would be upbeat and positive. He’d toe the standard detective line and say in the end the bad guys always fall. But those days are almost all behind him. ‘Probably not. This guy kills in both the US and Europe – he’s a professional assassin. Pros vanish in the way that street gangsters don’t. You cross borders, you throw police off your trail – you cross continents, the trail itself gets lost.’
‘But you have clues, forensic evidence, days and dates of movement. These things all help, no?’
‘They do, but they mean a whole lot more if you have a really good description of the guy – and we don’t. He’s a ghost.’
155
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
Mitzi collects the driver’s licence from A
ndy the traffic cop and heads back upstairs knowing they’ve got a break.
There’s a hot crackle of electricity jumping in her head, lighting up all kinds of possibilities, making connections. She also knows this is the time to keep cool and go slow. You have to treasure a breakthrough, position it right and build on it carefully. If you don’t, it turns to sand in your hand.
