The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  Benjamin nodded, and she smiled and then, seeing someone across the room, said, "Pakah" and walked away.

  For a moment Benjamin didn't move, simply staring at Natalya's pale bare back framed by the folds of her red evening gown. Then he realized he was gawking, took a long drink of his champagne, and went looking for his table.

  CHAPTER 32

  The tables were numbered from the front to the rear of the room, so he assumed his table was somewhere near the back, for which Benjamin was grateful: he didn't relish the thought of trying to make intelligent conversation with the A-list diplomats and luminaries seated at the prime tables near the stage area.

  As he found his table and sat down-he'd been right, it was practically at the entrance to the dining room-a Middle Eastern-looking gentleman with a thick mustache seated next to him rose and extended his hand. Benjamin noticed that he wore a very well-tailored tuxedo, which only made him more self-conscious.

  "How do you do," he said. "My name is Nabil Hassan."

  "Benjamin Wainwright," he said. They shook hands.

  "Sorirart biro'aitak," said Nabil. He saw that Benjamin didn't understand him. "Nice to meet you. Please," and he indicated that Benjamin should sit down.

  Benjamin saw that there were already small bowls of caviar, black and red, on the table, along with plates that held semihard bread and soft butter, and others with chopped eggs, onions, chives, and black olives.

  Benjamin saw Nabil take a piece of bread, spread butter on it, then use a tiny spoon to scoop a little caviar on it. He followed suit.

  Nabil took a bite of the bread and caviar. "Delicious," he said. "The best caviar will always come from Russia."

  Benjamin didn't really care for caviar, but he took a bite anyway. And he had to admit, this was certainly better than any he'd had before. As he reached for another serving, Nabil went on.

  "Excuse me if I seem abrupt," Nabil said, "but you don't seem like the usual guest for such an affair."

  "You're right," Benjamin said, still chewing his caviar. "I'm not."

  Waiters began serving the borsch. Benjamin was surprised to see, in addition to the beets, beef, potatoes, carrots…

  "Ah," said Nabil. " Real borscht." He said the word with a pronounced T at the end. "The only Russian soup I prefer to borscht-when it's authentic, that is, like this-is something called solyanka. Have you ever tried it?"

  "No," Benjamin said. "I'm not really that familiar with Russian cuisine."

  "Well, the best Russian cuisine, that of the Caucasus region, is in some ways similar to my own country's. Spicy, and with delicious sauces. Thank god this isn't an event celebrating the food of the Tartars. Then we'd be trying to smile while we ate kazy, a sausage made of horse meat."

  "Yes, thank goodness," said Benjamin. "Mr. Hassan, you said similar to your own country's?"

  "I'm Egyptian," Nabil said. "I'm a cultural attache with our legion here. Since… oh, well, several years now. And you, Mr. Wainwright? To what delegation do you belong?"

  Again Benjamin found himself struggling to explain his presence at the reception. He wished he and Natalya had established some sort of cover story. He decided again on a half-truth.

  "I'm doing some research for the center," he said finally. "I was invited by a Ms. Natalya Orlova."

  Nabil looked at him with a certain new appreciation. "A friend of Natalya's?" He smiled. "A very beautiful woman."

  "Yes," said Benjamin. "She is that."

  The waiters were already circulating with the next course, the golubzi. Benjamin tried his and found it again delicious.

  "What sort?" asked Nabil.

  "Excuse me?" asked Benjamin.

  "What sort of research are you doing for the center?"

  Benjamin realized he'd gotten himself into something of a trap, but then he also realized he had a rare opportunity to further his "research."

  "This may sound a little presumptuous of me, Mr. Hassan," Benjamin began nervously, "but do you know anything about hieroglyphics?"

  Nabil smiled very broadly. "That depends. What sort of hieroglyphics? Aztec? Asian? Polynesian?"

  "Well, no, uh, that is…"

  Nabil smiled. "I'm sorry, that's my little joke. Of course people always assume that only the ancient Egyptians used hieroglyphics for writing, when of course that is very much not the case."

  "Of course," Benjamin said. "I'm sorry."

  " Min fadila. Please, not at all," replied Nabil. "But I assume you were asking about my knowledge of Egyptian hieroglyphics?"

  Benjamin nodded.

  "Well, in that case, yes, I have passing knowledge, though I am far from a scholar on the subject."

  "I'm not sure my question really requires a full-fledged scholar," Benjamin said. "In fact, I'm not even certain it concerns authentic Egyptian hieroglyphs. It could simply be a facile imitation, something with no real meaning."

  "Well, Mr. Wainwright, why don't you describe to me the hieroglyph in question, and I'll try to ascertain its authenticity."

  "All right." Benjamin looked around for something on which to write, finally simply pulled the cocktail napkin out from under his champagne glass. Then he realized he had no pen. Saying "Do you mind?" to the woman on his right, he extracted the tiny plastic sword from the orange slice in her emptied cocktail.

  He put the napkin on the table and began tracing a symbol on it with the tip of the sword, pressing so as to make an impression.

  "It looks something like this," he said. And as he drew he began to describe the symbol he'd seen in the mural in the manse and the portrait of Gates in the library. "A triangle, with an ellipse or an eye at the top, and-"

  Nabil reached over and stopped his hand.

  "Is this your little joke?" he asked. He was still smiling, but he sounded slightly insulted.

  "I'm sorry?" Benjamin said.

  "This 'Eye on the Pyramid' nonsense? I assure you, Mr. Wainwright, despite all your hysteria over this 'Pyramonster' in American movies and books, there simply was no such symbol in actual Egyptian hieroglyphs." He removed his hand from Benjamin's, sat back. "I'm sorry," he said, "but if I hear this gha 'bi mosh kowayes… this moronic…"

  He paused, calmed himself.

  "Forgive me." He patted Benjamin's hand. "Imagine listening to someone from Cairo ask you about the secret anti-Islamic message of, for instance, 'The Star Spangled Banner.' You would be amused and insulted, simultaneously, yes?" Benjamin nodded. Nabil sighed. "So it is with so much to do with our revered ancestors. In our country, they are almost holy. Like your Founding Fathers. But on your dollar bill, in your films, they become cartoons. You see?"

  "Yes I do," Benjamin said.

  Now the waiters were serving a baked sole. While Benjamin began picking at his, Nabil continued.

  "And when it comes to pyramids, or triangles with eyes, well, they have as much meaning in Christian history as they do that of Egypt."

  "How do you mean?" asked Benjamin, eager to keep Nabil talking.

  "This eye you mention, this may be traced in Egypt to the Eye of Horus, which was all-knowing. And one can see how this developed. You see, here…"

  Nabil extracted a pen from his pocket and, taking the napkin, drew four symbols on it:

  "Here are the four Egyptian symbols for pyramid, the Egyptian word for which is mer. The first two symbols-the arc and the falcon-represent the light of the Pharaoh's soul as it ascends. But the pyramid itself is represented by the last two, the flattened ellipse and the triangle. Move the ellipse to the top of the triangle, turn it into an eye… you see? But this is also a symbol important to early Christians. The Eye of Horus becomes something like…" And then he sketched another symbol:

  "In such Christian icons, the three sides of the triangle and the three rays coming from each side represent-"

  "The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," said Benjamin.

  Nabil looked at him appreciatively. "Yes, exactly."

  "And the eye in the center, later Christians c
alled the 'All-Seeing Eye of God.' Or sometimes," and he watched Nabil's face as he said it, "simply the 'Eye of Providence'?"

  Nabil nodded but displayed no other reaction. "Exactly so. You know your history."

  "Some," said Benjamin. "But I understand what you mean about Masonic nonsense. The fact that it's on the Great Seal stirs up a lot of talk of conspiracies. People seem to forget, or don't know, that this part of the seal wasn't even designed by an American, but by a Frenchman, Pierre Eugene du Simitiere."

  Nabil nodded. "If you wish to get truly conspiratorial, Mr. Wainwright, you might mention your own secret intelligence agency, DARPA."

  "DARPA?" Benjamin asked. He had no idea what it meant.

  Nabil smiled. "The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, of your Pentagon. They have something called the Information Awareness Office. Look at their icon sometime. It is a pyramid with a glowing eye at the top." He set the pen down, took up his wine, and tilted the glass toward Benjamin. "See what I mean? Everywhere cartoons."

  Now Benjamin nodded. "But in this particular 'cartoon,' there is more than just the pyramid and eye." He held out his hand. "May I?" Nabil handed him the pen, and Benjamin continued with his own sketch.

  "You see, beneath this circle or eye at the top of the triangle, there is a line. And then two more similar lines, like this, in each lower corner, to make smaller triangles. And inside both of those are these other lines, but with tiny legs at the bottom. And then between them, there's what looks like a snake…" But as he was attempting to draw a thick serpent, the pen's point tore through the thin napkin. He turned the napkin so Nabil could examine it.

  "I see," said Nabil, looking down at his sketch. "Very interesting."

  "So you've never seen anything like this?" Benjamin asked.

  "Well." Nabil took another sip of his wine. "Not as a single Egyptian hieroglyph, no. But as a combination of different symbols…" He studied the sketch for a moment. "You see, these two 'lines with legs,' as you called them, in the bottom corners? These are the symbols for 'enemy.' And this serpent between them, this means 'conflict.' "

  He was silent for a moment, thinking.

  "Odd," he said finally. "Usually there is no barrier beneath the eye, as you have drawn it here. If there were no such barrier, I would say these were lines of power coming down from the eye. Or not power… more like control."

  "Controlling what?"

  "Why, the serpent of conflict, of course."

  "Well, that line, or barrier as you call it, I am certain it was there, beneath the eye. Why, what could that mean?"

  "I have never seen it done so. But were I to hazard an interpretation, I would say it suggested the power or control of the eye was hidden." He studied the sketch for another moment. "In which case, one would say this hidden agency was creating conflict between the two enemies, here in the corners. Provoking them, then sitting back in silence to watch their struggle."

  He laughed, shook his head, picked up his wineglass. "But that's all very much guesswork, Mr. Wainwright. Like trying to read ancient Egyptian without a Rosetta Stone." He looked at Benjamin with a very steady gaze. "And where have you seen such a symbol, Mr. Wainwright?"

  Now Benjamin was in a quandary. He couldn't possibly explain the entire story to Nabil, but to tell him only the part about the mural would seem insane. He decided again to be half honest.

  "In my research at the Library of Congress," he said. "I saw it among the details of a sketch…" And then he stopped. He wasn't sure he even wanted to share the information about Horatio Gates with a total stranger. "A sketch made during the Revolutionary War."

  "Well," said Nabil, "perhaps it meant there was another war going on. One less visible to the public." He smiled. "A 'fight behind the veil,' as we say."

  Benjamin was about to respond, but then the waiters came with the dessert: blintzes with fruit served in red wine. Even as they turned to their desserts, the lights in the dining room were dimmed, and then lights at the front of the room were turned on to illuminate the stage area. And it was at that moment Benjamin felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned.

  Natalya stood over him. But before she said anything, she turned to Nabil.

  "Good evening, Mr. Hassan," she said.

  "Masa'a AlKair," replied Nabil, making to rise.

  "Please, do not get up," Natalya said. "I would like to borrow Mr. Wainwright for a moment. Do you mind?"

  Nabil smiled. "Of course not," he said. "How could I object to another man's good fortune?"

  "You are a true diplomat, Mr. Hassan. Spasiba. "

  Benjamin stood up, extended his hand to Nabil. "Thank you, Mr. Hassan. You were very helpful. I hope we meet again."

  "Ahlan wa shalan," said Nabil. "You are welcome. And inshaalha, Mr. Wainwright. If it is God's will."

  Benjamin wasn't sure what to say to that, so he merely nodded.

  Natalya led him into the foyer, turned to him. Once again, Benjamin felt intimidated in her presence. She was smiling at him, but he sensed the strong will behind that smile… and something else-that trace of hostility he couldn't explain. And as before, her striking beauty made him feel like a high school boy too nervous to speak.

  "Now, Mr. Wainwright, you said you brought a CD?"

  "Yes." He fumbled in his pocket, brought out the disc. "Here." He handed it to her.

  "There's a computer upstairs, in my office. Please, follow me."

  As they climbed the staircase to the second floor, Natalya held her dress up just a little, so it didn't drag on the carpet.

  Benjamin looked again at the elaborate decorations-red-and-gold trimming on the stairway, red roses everywhere.

  "Isn't this all a little grand for the former Soviet Union?" he said-but it sounded peevish and he regretted the words immediately.

  Natalya replied over her shoulder as she continued walking ahead of him.

  "It is ironic, really," she replied, sounding slightly condescending. "This house was built in 1895 for Evalyn Walsh McLean, a very wealthy capitalist who owned, among many other things, the Hope Diamond. The Soviets bought the house in the 1950s, used it as a school for children of the embassy staff. They did not trust American schools. Then it was renovated and reopened as the Russian Cultural Center in 1999. We host all sorts of events, from poetry readings to film premiers. Just last week there was the Tsvetaeva Bonfire."

  "Bonfire?" asked Benjamin.

  "Not really a bonfire." They'd reached the end of a hallway on the second floor, and Natalya entered an area of small offices. She stopped in front of one with stenciled on the door. "It is a celebration of the poet Marina Tsvetaeva's birthday. And then the week before that we premiered a new Russian film, one of those ridiculous spy thrillers Americans like so much, something called, in English, Chasing Piranha. Something about agents and secret weapons. I do not care for such stories myself."

  She gathered up her gown and sat down at her desk, turned on her computer.

  " That's a little ironic, isn't it?" Benjamin asked.

  Natalya watched the system start up, inserted the CD into its slot.

  "Why is that?" she said, not looking at him.

  "Well, with all this," he waved at the CD, the building, the general situation, "it just seems like perhaps you're in such a story."

  Now she turned and looked at him. Her blue-green eyes were bright spots in the dim light. Again he sensed the strong will behind her beautiful face.

  "I hope not, Mr. Wainwright," she said. "For both our sakes, I truly hope not."

  CHAPTER 33

  Benjamin and Natalya sat staring at the computer screen. Upon it was displayed the same list of files that he and Wolfe had read that night so long ago-and only forty-eight hours earlier.

  "The only thing I see here I understand," Natalya said, pointing to the list of file names, "is Stzenariy 55. I spent several frustrating hours yesterday searching for some mention of such a name in our archives."

  "Did you find anything?" Benjamin asked eager
ly.

  "Well." She looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. He could tell she was hesitating about being completely honest with him. But then he realized he hadn't told her the whole truth about what had happened since he'd arrived at the Foundation.

  "Look," he said, "I understand. You don't know anything about me. I'm simply someone who called this morning asking about Dr. Fletcher. And I think you'd agree, I don't know anything about you, either."

  "You know I am a Russian cultural attache," she said. She looked at him with those bright blue-green eyes, but there was caution rather than hostility in them now. "And that is more than I really know about you, Mr. Wainwright."

  "Benjamin," he said. "Benjamin Franklin Wainwright." He smiled. "Now you know the most embarrassing thing there is to know about me." She laughed, and he hurried on. "I have a degree in Colonial American history from Georgetown University, and, until last Friday, I was doomed to spend my life in the basement of the Library of Congress, cross-checking two-hundred-year-old birth and death certificates."

  "Well," she said. "So you are indeed an academician, and not some sort of adventurer?"

  "Ms. Orlova-," he began.

  "Natalya," she corrected.

  This made Benjamin feel her hostility toward him was finally fading.

  "Until last Friday," he said, trying to respond to the honesty he felt in her eyes, "when I arrived at the American Heritage Foundation, the biggest adventure in my life was when I spent a week in Paris, as a student, and stayed in a fifteen-franc-a-night hotel."

  She laughed again. The effect was immediate. He decided to tell her what had happened to Jeremy Fletcher.

  "I have to tell you first," he began. "Dr. Fletcher is… when I got to the Foundation, last Friday… he'd had a heart attack the day before. He was dead."