He threw the powdery sand down wind, building a pile behind him, working steadily until 03:00 when the shovel hit a buried foundation stone. Zachary burrowed under it until he breached a gap into the pyramid’s interior.
He heaved more sand from the hole until the excavation grew big enough to crouch in. He tried not to think about the possibility of sand collapsing around him while he stood under the pyramid searching for the object. Pushing negative thoughts aside, he took a deep breath, squeezing under the foundation, pushing up into a thin cylindrical space. The enveloping stone walls were dry and dusty. He could just touch the ceiling. By torchlight he rotated his body until he saw the opening. At the back of the recess sat an object wrapped in grey wool.
Suddenly engulfed in panic, he pulled the object to his stomach. Finding it difficult to emerge from the space, he hyperventilated, his shoulders momentarily jammed against the sides of the foundations before he burst into fresh air like he’d just been delivered into the world. He took a giant breath, let out a cry a newborn infant would have been proud of and scrambled up the side of the hole, panting with relief – 03:31.
With no time to fill the hole, he popped the object into his backpack and retraced his route to rendezvous with Joseph Mutabe. He arrived at the large pyramid - 03:54, weary from his exertions. With the pickup fast approaching, he pushed on toward the razor-wire fence, following it until he sighted the white post. As his watch alarm beeped 04:00 he heard a vehicle approach. He jogged to the meeting point as the jeep came out of the night.
It ground to a stop and Zachary climbed into the front seat.
‘Hello, Mr Smith. Did you find what you were after?’
‘I think so, Joseph. I...’
‘Get out,’ a loud voice said.
Zachary felt the cold steel of a gun in the back of his neck. He stepped out of the jeep and onto the sand. The backpack was wrenched off his shoulders. Joseph stood on the other side of the jeep, a hooded man holding a pistol to his head.
‘Lie down and do not talk. Resist and you are dead men.’
A gunman knelt on Zachary’s back, binding his wrists and ankles with cable ties. Joseph was tied the same way, and their heads covered with hessian sacks.
The jeep growled to life, showering Zachary and Joseph with rubble as it stormed away – 04:09.
Dawn came an hour later and sensing no one guarding them, Zachary rolled onto his back and sat up.
‘Joseph, are you alright?’
‘As well as can be expected, Mr Smith, but my hands are numb.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘We were followed, Mr Smith. I was hijacked in the middle of nowhere while I waited for you. This is not the work of Janjaweed. They would have shot me on sight. The Liberation Army is my sworn enemy. Someone else knows you are here. They were only interested in you, Mr Smith. Now we are in a dangerous predicament. If government forces find us, our situation will deteriorate rapidly.
Zachary was sweating. Only one person knew why he was in Sudan, and Zachary was in constant contact with him until leaving Khartoum the previous evening. The loss of the object was no coincidence.
The morning wind blew cold as the rising sun lit the sand and the field of pyramids in vibrant orange. An unexpected shadow fell over the two men and the air turned pungent. Zachary made out the shape of a man above them on a camel. He dismounted and drove a foot into Joseph’s stomach, doubling him up. Three more camels arrived, their riders talking excitedly as four motorcycles throttled to a stop behind them.
A helicopter came low and fast, landing on the desert and blasting sand in all directions. Four soldiers sprinted from under the whipping blades, dragging Zachary and Joseph onto the floor of the aircraft that quickly lifted off and steered into the sun. The camouflaged door slammed shut, dampening the rushing wind and the howl of the rotors.
The Soviet-built Mi 24 flew low across the desert for twenty minutes then landed. Zachary and Joseph were hauled out, and through the hessian bag covering his head, Zachary saw a blurred symmetrical arrangement of low buildings. Both men were lugged across a tarmac, up steps into a room and roughly deposited in chairs. They sat facing a wall and their hoods were removed. The soldiers left.
‘Welcome to Janjaweed headquarters, Mr Smith,’ Joseph said.
‘Where are we, Joseph?’
‘A government sponsored Janjaweed military installation. You certainly know how to attract attention, Mr Smith. I suspect you are about to experience some of the lesser known customs of our fine country.’
‘What are they going to ...?’
The door slammed behind them. A small black man appeared, impeccably attired in a green military uniform.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Mr Smith, I assume your mission to Meroe was successful.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Mr Smith, the whole world knows your name.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I am General Zunti, the head of Janjaweed and in charge of this compound.’
Joseph Mutabe needed no introduction. He despised the general.
‘Why have you brought us here?’ Zachary said.
‘It seems you have been betrayed, Mr Smith. I was alerted to your presence in the cemetery early this morning. What did you find at the royal site?’
‘I do not know. It was stolen from me.’
‘Why have you faked your disappearance, Mr Smith? You must have powerful reasons for abandoning such a celebrated life.’
Zachary said nothing, hiding his surprise at the general’s knowledge of his recent past.
‘I am well across the media, Mr Smith. What will your government pay to spare your life? Your rat obviously thinks it might be fun to find out. Whatever you claimed in Meroe seems far more valuable to him than your survival.’
An old black phone rang loudly on a table in the corner of the room. Zunti picked up the hand-piece, stretching the spiralled cord connected to it. He listened for half a minute and hung up.
‘The Sudanese Government does not take kindly to the desecration of its sacred monuments, Mr Smith. Your late-night diggings have caused an outrage. Is there anything you should tell me before we begin proceedings?’
‘Such as?’ Zachary said.
‘What were you searching for and under whose instruction?’
Zunti stepped close to Zachary, leaning over to meet his eyes.
‘And if I refuse?’ Zachary gritted his teeth, holding Zunti’s gaze.
‘You will see, Mr Smith.’ Zunti grinned like a devil and Zachary resisted the urge to head-butt him.
Zunti took a pace back, turning to Joseph Mutabe. From a hook on his belt the general unhitched a black baton. Without warning or emotion, he swung it into Joseph’s head with a fleshy crack that put the giant man out. Joseph’s head slumped to his chest and a heavy purple lump welled above his temple.
‘When Mr Mutabe wakes, you might spare him further discomfort if you are forthcoming with useful information. Torture is my specialty, Mr Smith, lengthy sessions of unbearable pain for no other reason than to satisfy my insatiable need to inflict suffering. You see, Mr Smith, I answer to no one. I alone control your destiny.’
General Zunti left the room. Two soldiers entered, snipping the cable-ties binding the men. Blood flooded into Zachary’s numbed hands. They were searched for weapons. Joseph gave up a pistol and a hunting knife.
Zachary was marched out of the room and directed down a corridor to a door at its end.
‘Open it,’ the soldier said.
Zachary complied, walking into darkness. The soldier hit the light switch to reveal a windowless room with grey walls and a cement floor with a hinged metal grate at its centre.
‘Lift it,’ the soldier said.
Zachary struggled, heaving the grate over with a crash, exposing a square hole.
‘Get in,’ the soldier motioned with his weapon.
Zachary backed down a ladder. A loud bang startled him as the grate slammed
closed over his head. A padlock snapped shut and the light went out.
In pitch-black, Zachary explored the walls of a small cell. The circulation in his hands and feet slowly returned to normal. He sat against one wall and undid the zip in his jacket collar where a tiny satellite phone was concealed. The luminous screen shed a soft light into the bare cell. Zachary typed a message as quickly as his stiff fingers allowed. The battery read low. He sent the text before the phone died.
From the silence came Joseph Mutabe’s crazed screams for mercy. Zachary’s stomach churned with fear as agonised cries pierced the walls. Zachary vomited. In the next room, all manner of hellish things was being inflicted upon Joseph Mutabe.
Zachary pulled his knees tightly to his chest then covered his ears with his hands. The tormented sounds were insufferable and he sobbed to blunt the pain of it.
40
The operative boarded the plane in Cairo. Metal cases containing his large inventory of photographic gear were stored in the cargo hold. On the seat, next to him, sat a shiny square box that usually housed a Nikon digital camera, brought on board unchecked under the diplomatic immunity afforded the papal entourage. Four rows back, the Pope reclined in a cream leather chair, reading notes on his forthcoming visit to Brazil.
As a member of the Pope’s press corps, the operative had compiled a visual record of the Papal visit to Egypt, and already sent the photographs to his computer inside the Vatican. Now he was absorbed in J.K. Rowling’s final instalment of Harry Potter.
A bell chimed in the cabin announcing the descent into Leonardo da Vinci airport. The plane bounced gently on the runway and rolled to a stop near the terminal. A limousine and a white bus drove up, parking at the nose of the aircraft. As soon as the stairs unfolded, the Pope and two cardinals alighted into the limousine. The rest of the entourage boarded the bus, their luggage loaded underneath. Both vehicles were escorted from the airport by police cars and a posse of motor cycles with flashing lights but no sirens. At 2 p.m. the mini convoy entered the Vatican, depositing the Pope safely inside his holy domain.
The operative loaded his gear and personal luggage onto a golf cart for transport to the media centre. With the shiny box and The Deathly Hallows tucked under his arm, he drove along a bitumen pathway through a maze of buildings.
At the media centre, he unpacked, put Harry Potter and the box onto his desk then dialled an internal number.
‘I have it,’ he said.
‘Bring it to me,’ was the reply.
He lifted the box off the desk and left the office immediately.
Father Stephen’s cell phone woke him with a start. He focused his bleary eyes, scrolling through fifteen lines of text, making sure his eyes were not deceiving him. He barely heard the knock at the door as Sister Dorothea entered and placed afternoon tea on the table next to his chair.
‘Thank you, Sister. Is Cardinal Venti in his office?’
‘Yes, Father, and meeting with a Vatican press representative regarding the Pope’s recent African visit.’
‘I will take dinner in the dining room this evening, Sister, no need to tend to me tonight.’
Sister Dorothea bowed and left.
The second she went, Father Stephen rose stiffly from his chair, hobbled out the door, locked it and headed down the corridor.
Outside Venti’s office Father Stephen lowered his weary body into an armchair and waited – 17:45. A man, not of the cloth, emerged soon after, walking past Father Stephen without acknowledging him.
Venti backed out of his office and was momentarily startled.
‘Father Stephen, it’s great to see you up and about. How are you feeling?’ He ached for wine and a handful of coloured pills.
‘Much better, Eminence.’
‘How can I help? I have Mass in a few minutes, and please call me Michael.’ Venti said.
‘Perhaps tomorrow is a better time, Michael.’
‘Yes, Father. I will have Sister Dorothea call for you mid-morning around ten. Did you find out more from your student about the papyrus?’ Venti met Father Stephen’s eyes, smiling all the time.
‘He was grateful but reluctant to divulge anything else,’ Father Stephen said, suspecting Venti knew the truth.
‘Until tomorrow, Father.’ Venti headed down the corridor.
Father Stephen delivered a telling blow. ‘Michael, did you hear the good news?’
Venti continued walking. ‘What news?’
‘He’s alive.’
‘Who?’
‘Zachary Smith, in East Africa.’
Venti stumbled against the corridor wall. ‘Thank God, Father, you must be relieved.’ Then he spun away, hurrying toward his private chapel, rationalizing developments.
If Zachary had been captured by militia it would make international news. Then the Sudanese government would have a bargaining chip to rid their country of devilsent U.S. and U.N. forces.
Venti did not say Mass. Instead, he walked into Saint Peter’s Square on a warm summer’s evening, crossing the border into Italy proper. He shed his collar and lapel crucifixes, slipping into an empty bar, taking a vacant booth at the back. In the dim light, he ordered whisky on ice and fumbled in his pocket for a little jar of pills. He poured any number of red tablets into his hand, and washed them down with the liquor. The warmth spread beautifully throughout his soul, enabling him to address the tasks at hand. What to do about Father Stephen, Zachary Smith and the contents of the shiny box.
Father Stephen, re-energised after his encounter with the Cardinal, entered Venti’s office and turned on the light. The Cardinal’s den was opulently appointed with wood-panelled walls, antique furniture and sixteenth-century portraits set in heavy gold frames. For a man of the cloth, Venti had expensive tastes. His one concession to the treasures of past centuries was a laptop computer centred on his desk. Father Stephen smelled whisky. Unsure what to expect, he opened the top drawer of the desk to find an impeccably aligned row of ornate fountain pens. Venti was renowned for his attention to detail, one reason he’d made Cardinal at age forty-two.
The drawer below contained a shiny box with a handle and a tag attached. Father Stephen put the box on the desk. The blue and yellow Sudanese Air label showed it had passed through Egypt.
A knock at the door froze Father Stephen to the spot. A long minute passed. He closed the drawer, picked up the box, turned off the light and slowly opened the door to check the corridor. Seeing it clear, he relocked the door and limped away to his room, suddenly feeling fatigued.
Father Stephen watched Zachary plead for his life on CNN. Venti was glued to the screen above the bar. If exposed, he would deny everything with his usual sincerity and charm. He prayed Zachary would leave Sudan in a pine box, hardly believing the U.S. government would withdraw its troops on the balance of one man’s life - an Italian national at that. Still, Venti was stressed. He ordered another whisky as Zachary ended his statement. The video finished abruptly. If the Janjaweed were true to their word, Zachary would die within forty-eight hours, freeing Venti of any association. He downed the fresh whisky, chewing the ice blocks to oblivion.
Father Stephen saw fear in Zachary’s eyes, unable to fathom his horrible dilemma and impending death. His appointment with Venti remained the only hope of getting Zachary off the Dark Continent alive.
Father Stephen opened the shiny box to find it filled with greyed wool.
‘Come in,’ Venti answered the knock at his office door.
Sister Dorothea entered with a pot of strong coffee and a pastry.
‘Good morning, Eminence, I see you were working later than usual last evening.’
‘No, Sister, Mass at six as scheduled,’ Venti said through a thumping headache.
‘You left your light on. I came past at 6:30, knocked to check, but guessed you were busy when there was no answer.’
Venti mulled the information over in his foggy brain, certain the light was off when he entered this morning.
‘Forgetful in
my old age, Sister. I must remember to do my bit to reduce the Vatican’s carbon footprint. Greenhouse gases are high on the moral agenda these days, you know.’
Sister Dorothea broke into a grin, bowed and left.
Venti dropped his veil of joviality the second the door clicked shut. He poured a mug of steaming coffee, took a tentative sip, eyes racing around the room, everything appearing as it should be. In the top drawer of his desk the pens were still perfectly arranged, but from the drawer below the shiny box was gone.
He slammed his coffee cup on the desk, whirling around, taking in every surface of the office, searching for a glimmer of the box. On hands and knees, he scoured the thick carpet under and about the furniture. His head throbbed. Red pills with coffee might ease his frustration but not the anguish slowly suffocating him. Venti’s mind slipped into overdrive.
Until the next knock at his door, Venti fought to control his anger. Sister Dorothea showed Father Stephen in.
‘Take a seat, Father, ‘Venti said. ‘Name your poison.’
‘Coffee, if I may, Eminence.’
Venti’s thin smile unnerved Father Stephen who reverted to the cardinal’s formal title with no encouragement. The room seemed to darken. Fully attired in crimson liturgical vestments, Venti wore a matching zucchetto on the crown of his head. He poured a coffee from the pot.
‘Black, Father?’
‘Thank you.’
Venti took a draught of his coffee, inhaling the strong aroma.
‘I am deeply saddened at the plight of your friend, Zachary. I wish the Vatican could help secure his release.’ Venti tested Father Stephen.
‘The Vatican may yet have a role to play, Eminence.’
‘I imagine it will be a matter for the U.S. government and the United Nations. Zachary’s fate appears to rest solely in their hands,’ Venti said.
‘With due respect, Eminence, Zachary’s fate lies with you.’
Venti glanced acerbically at Father Stephen, caught himself and smiled.
The Jesus Germ Page 18
