In the wheelhouse, upholding the English tradition of keeping a stiff upper lip, the unexpected celebrity who arrived along with the U.N. Peacekeeping forces, the British minister of defense, stood next to the captain who, in freezing to death with his crew, had duplicated the feat of the man after whom he had been named.
Thanks to the media’s typically fine job of sensationalizing this ironic angle to the tragedy, his moniker would become synonymous, worldwide, with severe cold as in, “It’s Scott cold outside today.”
And speaking of English traditions, still perched upon the wooden ledge where he had set it just scant seconds before the wheel house glass had shattered was the captain’s delicate saucer and teacup filled with Earl Grey, a spot of cream, twist of lemon and three lumps of sugar: although, instead of the piping hot traditional English favorite, it now more closely resembled something that would be enjoyed in the deep south of the United States: iced tea.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dizziness accompanied nausea. Unbelieving eyes stared at the morning headline, wishing it could be made to change. “Entire Crew Found Dead Aboard HMS Prince of Wales.”
Fifteen minutes after taking off, the helicopter slated to transport Thomas and half of his forty-man unit to the deck of the giant carrier had been forced to turn back. After brooding overnight, initially cursing the bad luck that prevented them from joining the rest of their unit, the release of the shocking news devastated the 20 who had lived.
“Something’s going on here,” Thomas whispered to himself. Shaking his head from side to side, he closed his eyes. This is too much of a coincidence. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling and mumbled, “I should’ve been on that ship.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’m the one they were after. Over 600 people died because somebody wanted me dead. Someone else saved me. I don’t know how, but somebody caused that helicopter’s engine to act up.” An icy shiver ran down his back. How could anyone or anything do that?
~~~
In England, the eldest lector priest, Kherep-Isfet, spoke in a reassuring voice. “My Lord, you have taken the next step in your development, but to make the final transition you must still recreate the Fluid of Life and bathe in its waters. You must also learn to act and think like a pharaoh, an extension of God on Earth, the political and religious leader of Egypt.
“You have been troubled regarding the death of your friend’s father. You must not blame yourself. As for the death of the woman in the hospital waiting to be cured of her diabetes...Aunt Becky’s sacrifice, you called it. That is exactly what it was — a sacrifice — a human sacrifice. Not murder. She will be richly rewarded in the next life. In both cases you were doing what had to be done — acting on behalf of Egypt.”
“I am changing,” Horus complained. “I do not like what I see myself becoming.”
“While you need not become as heartless as the vizier might wish, you must understand that difficult challenges lie ahead. Do you not realize that you are at war? Think upon it, my Lord. In order to achieve victory, you must come to know your enemy and anticipate the weapons he will use.”
“I know my enemy.” Horus replied without hesitation.
“Do you?” Kherep-Isfet wondered. “And do you know the tools your enemy will use in attempting to defeat you?”
Tired of riddles, Horus waved his hand to stop the priest. He stared with an intensity that made it difficult for the old man to maintain eye contact.
“Meditate, my Lord. Find the truth for yourself. Seek the answers. They lie between the things you have been taught and that which you feel, deep within.” Kherep-Isfet bowed and turned to leave.
Impressed by the old priest’s wisdom, Horus sat upon the floor, crossed his legs into a lotus position, and closed his eyes. Knowing his enemy and the weapons that might be used against him would be most useful.
After the Prince of Wales incident, Great Britain must be considered as my enemy. The United States has also become my enemy, although I wish it were not so.
He had been treated kindly during his time at MIT. He respected the Americans and their society. He thought about baseball, the Green Monster, and the perfectly manicured grass at Fenway Park. He recalled the extraordinary feelings that he experienced watching the faces of the Red Sox fans singing the national anthem. He had been so impressed. In addition, he didn’t like the idea of fighting America because Jeanne came from the United States. How do you explain to your queen, the woman you love, that you are going to enslave her people?
Horus winced at the thought of Thomas Franklin becoming his mortal enemy. Why did his father have to go back up on that stage? How could such a thing have happened? And then the realization struck. It had to be the work of Set.
Opening his eyes, Horus spoke to himself as the revelation became clear. “Christians always blame the devil when things don’t go as they wish. They may be confused as to the names of the gods, but they are correct in believing that an evil spirit exists.
“If the ten plagues brought upon Egypt were weapons wielded by any vindictive supreme being, then surely Set, brother of Osiris, known today as Satan by the Christians, must have been the responsible deity.”
Rather than the God of Moses, or any current nation, or human, Horus understood that his enemy was Set, sinister lord of fear, suspicion, and desperation.
Set murdered and dismembered Osiris, aided by his eternal accomplice, Apophis. Set did everything in his power to prevent the unification of upper and lower Egypt into one harmonious nation that ruled the Earth for over 3,000 years.
The United States and Thomas Franklin were not his true enemies. They were unwitting tools in the hands of an evil god.
Standing at the door, the second lector priest, Ra-Amunhotep, entered the room accompanied by the youngest of the three holy men. He asked, “Have you discovered the identity of your enemy?”
Horus replied, “My primary enemy is Set.”
Ra-Amunhotep gave a single, solemn nod. “Long before the dawn of the new millennium and the attempts to clone the son of Osiris, Set put in motion the forces that would enrage and control those who might possess the power to overthrow and destroy you, his greatest enemy.”
The third priest, Ikhernofret, said, “You were cloned to be an identical twin to the son of Osiris and have become a part of the endless battle against your celestial father’s assassin. Meanwhile, ironically, Set has manipulated you into accidentally killing the father of Thomas Franklin, a young man who may one day rise to power. He is now intent on gaining revenge upon you. As you believe in what you must achieve, he also believes his cause is justified. What he does not know is that he is merely a pawn, doing the bidding of Set, who cleverly wages war against you and your father, by any means.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
After departing from Manchester airport, the 65 million dollar Gulfstream jet leveled off at 48,000 feet. Near the back of the luxurious private plane, furnished to seat eight passengers, Horus unbuckled his seat belt. He reached across Jeanne to pull the shade down on the large, elliptical window and then wrapped an arm around her. Placing her head on his shoulder, he whispered, “I am taking you home, my queen. Home to the land of my father, Osiris.”
Leaning over, he planted a tender kiss on her forehead and then peered into her face as if he expected her to react. He would have preferred not to sedate her and cast spells over her. He wished she could understand and embrace his destiny, prophesied nearly 3,000 years before Edgar Cayce, America’s sleeping prophet, spoke of chambers beneath the paws of the Great Sphinx at Giza.
Knowing that his were the only ears listening, he explained, “As the lotus blooms each year when the Nile overflows, so shall the glory of Egypt return. Egypt will snatch the reins of power away from the United States and its allies. Our enemies will become our beasts of burden and we shall have dominion over all mankind. The world will be at our feet. And you, my beautiful, reluctant queen, will be by my side.”
Wearing a smartl
y tailored uniform consisting of a matching navy blue skirt and jacket with gold trim, the petite attendant for the chartered flight came down the carpeted aisle from the front of the plane and bent to politely inquire, “A pillow for the lady?”
Horus shook his head, no.
“Something to drink for you, sir, or perhaps you’d care for something from the kitchen?” Brushing her long, platinum blonde hair away from her cheek, she spoke softly, so as not to awaken the sleeping passenger, “We could prepare a nice—”
Again Horus shook his head no, and his expression made it clear that he did not wish to be further bothered.
Unfazed, the attendant turned to Jeanne’s nurse, “Pardon me, would you care for something to drink? We have a full bar and kitchen. If there’s anything you’d like, feel free to let me know.” The nurse asked for a Vodka gimlet, to which the attendant replied, “Certainly.”
On her way back up the aisle the attendant stopped where Kherep-Isfet sat with Ra-Amunhotep, and offered the same services. Horus had traveled in a separate limousine to the private airport. He had been so preoccupied with Jeanne and her private nurse that he hadn’t noticed that only two of the three lector priests seemed to be on the plane. But he noticed now. Evidently, the youngest priest, Ikhernofret, had not boarded the plane.
Horus’s strong hands grasped Jeanne’s shoulders, tilting her gently against the outer wall of the cabin before getting up and moving forward to where the two priests sat, reading. Standing in the aisle, hovering above Kherep-Isfet, he stared down. “Where is Ikhernofret?”
Kherep-Isfet calmly closed his magazine and placed it in the pullout receptacle on the back of the seat in front of him. Looking up, he replied, “He did not accompany us, my Lord. He is still at the cottage, tending to the final, mundane details associated with your visit — trivial things such as paying the house keepers, the catering company, and others with whom we have done business. He also mentioned that he needed to speak with the vizier —”
“The vizier? Why would he need to contact the vizier?” Horus demanded.
Unnerved by Horus’s reaction, Kherep-Isfet replied uncertainly with a question of his own, “Why, what could be the harm, my Lord?”
The eldest of the lector priests turned toward Ra-Amunhotep, whose eyes moved from the troubled face of his religious mentor to the far more intense countenance of Egypt’s messiah. He said, “We must remain in touch with the vizier from time to time, my Lord. The funds with which we operate do not magically appear. Our expenses have been considerable.”
Realizing what Horus suspected, the aged priest turned back to Egypt’s messiah, “Surely you don’t suspect…” He paused, struggling with how to say it.
“That we have a Judas amongst us?” Horus finished the sentence, shaking his head, his face filled with concern. “After enduring centuries of the Jews and Christians copying our stories and beliefs, how pathetic it would be if we were now to emulate them and their classic story of betrayal.” Horus pointed at the old priest. “Get Mohammad Gharib on the phone, right away!”
~~~
Dressed in a dark gray, pinstriped Dolce Gabana suit, accented by a cream and black Brioni tie, Mohammed Gharib leaned back in his leather chair as the vizier bent over the ornate desk and pounded on it to dramatize his already belabored point. “He is flawed, I tell you!”
Having reached his annoyance threshold, Gharib turned his head away, partially to indicate his waning interest in this tirade, but also to escape the spray of spittle and the rank breath of this repulsive nuisance in white robes who spat as much as he spoke. The vizier’s allegations had been heard before. While his visitor droned on, Gharib discreetly increased the distance between himself and the malodorous human sprinkler system before him by using his legs and feet to edge his rolling chair back, away from his desk.
The vizier waved his arms and shouted to maintain Gharib’s full attention, a trace of his rancid breath still finding its target. “Listen carefully, Inspector, because the fate of Egypt and perhaps the entire world may depend on how you react and upon the actions taken by those to whom you report! Number Seven does not possess…”
The phone on the chief inspector’s desk began to ring, forcing the vizier to pause while waiting to see if the inspector would answer. He did not. Rather than answering the call, the chief inspector hit a button that immediately transferred the incoming communication to his voice mail. No matter who called, or what it concerned, he felt that it could wait. He could not afford to be bothered at this moment.
Shaking his head as if at a child’s juvenile persistence, Gharib complained, “You still insist on referring to the messiah as Number Seven? Do you not understand, Vizier? While you are not the only one who feels our reborn deliverer may be lacking in some areas, most notably his ability to control his own libido, the majority of those possessing the power to terminate this project have little faith in your prophecy of disaster. Now that he has reached maturity, the messiah may not be perfect, but he is far from the failure you portray him to be. Now why don’t you calm down and have a nice, cold drink?”
Waving his hand, the vizier snarled, “I don’t want a drink, unless it is to toast the compendium’s agreement with my position. And don’t forget,” he snarled, “should I deem it necessary, I have the power to terminate this project — I always have.”
Gharib countered flatly “Not anymore, not if I have anything to say about it, and I do. Frankly, Vizier, this vendetta you wage has grown tedious. At the gathering this Friday we will vote to remove you from the project, altogether. I will personally introduce the motion at the meeting and will—”
“But, but,” the vizier spluttered, “I terminated number six! It was I who decided number six could not—”
The inspector interrupted, saying, “We all agreed number six was physically inadequate, Vizier. You merely carried out the sentence on the poor child. A task, I might add, that you seemed to relish. Numbers one through five were aborted within the first trimester of pregnancy due to chromosomal damage that occurred during the cloning process, so don’t attempt to take credit for any heroics in those cases.”
“So, I am to be removed, you say?”
“I will introduce the motion this Friday. I mention it now in recognition of the fact that you have served Egypt admirably for many years. With this advance notice you may have time to revise your stance and prepare your defense. In doing so, perhaps you may be allowed to retain some sort of an advisory capacity.”
“Have you discussed this motion with the…” Breathing hard, the vizier stopped for a moment and stared at the floor. Having found the right words, he asked, “Have you been secretly waging a war against me behind my back?”
“No, though I feel I would have been justified had I done so. You have been doing exactly that for the past six months — lobbying for your interests with each member of the council, bestowing inappropriate gifts, throwing parties, buying dinners. It sickens me, and I have had enough. Enough of your tactics and enough of you.”
The vizier glared into the eyes of the inspector, considering the influence he wielded and calculating the severity of the threat he posed.
The eyes that stared back at him exuded confidence.
Breaking eye contact, the man who had been entrusted with the messiah’s development sat in one of the two leather chairs facing the desk. He paused for a few seconds, during which he silently beseeched the divine guidance of Osiris. While considering his options, his eyes roamed about the dusty office. Tall shelves filled with books, literally hundreds, lined the time-yellowed walls. Half of the volumes contained details of completed and ongoing archaeological explorations. A number of the books held copies of appeal documents — denials, grants, and pending proposals for archaeological digs seeking every imaginable artifact from the lost Ark of the Covenant to the sacred staff of Moses.
Settling on a risky plan of action, the vizier crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and stared with renewed poise i
nto the eyes of the inspector. Conveying his newfound composure, he no longer shouted. “Seven has never shown the cool objectivity to accomplish our long term goals. He does not listen. He has never exhibited the strength of character or the ability to remain calm when under pressure. To this date, he has failed to recreate the Fluid of Life, yet he points a finger of blame in any convenient direction and refuses to accept responsibility. If you ask me, the last person in the entire world that could ever be wrong looks back at him each morning in the mirror.”
The chief inspector rolled his eyes. “Do you mean to say he sees your reflection in the mirror? Why would he see your refection in his mirror, Vizier?” Gharib tilted his head and raised his bushy, unkempt eyebrows, waiting for a response to his sardonic comment.
Chuckling rather than becoming enraged, the vizier stood. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket he said, “I suppose I may have earned that.” He removed a pair of glasses and opened them up. Rather than donning them, he held them in his hand as he spoke. “I am a little embarrassed to admit to you, Inspector, after 24 years on this project I am showing signs of aging. I misplace or forget things that I need, and I often overreact when criticized. Some of the things I lose or misplace are trivial, such as these.” He waved the spectacles. “I can accept the innocent reminders of time’s passage, such as forgetfulness, but I am ashamed to realize that I act callously at times, as if my own opinions and agendas are of greater concern than the needs of our country and its people. So much is riding on the success of this project.”
The vizier shook his head in apparent regret, folded the glasses, and placed them back into his jacket. “How can two educated men, such as we, be at odds, Chief Inspector?” Spreading his arms in an imploring gesture, he said, “We were both selected to serve Egypt and for many years, we have done so to the best of our abilities. It makes no sense for us to bandy words, or to carry on in an adversarial way, does it?”
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 20
