‘Is that him?’ Ilhan asked unnecessarily.
Propped up against the centre of the wall at the back of the room, a figure sat, cross-legged. Time, and the arid desert conditions, had sapped Balinas’ flesh of the fluids that had once surged through his body, drawing his skin taut over brittle bundles of bones and dehydrated muscles. Even under those brutal physiological conditions, the expression on the long-dead alchemist’s face was somehow serene. The sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw curved arabesques into the darkened leather of his skin. His lips were parted slightly, showing a glimpse of starkly white teeth, while hooded eyelids feathered with dark lashes dipped gently over long-empty eye sockets.
The Emerald Tablet rested in what once would have been his lap, angled back against a ribcage delineated starkly beneath mummified skin. The tablet’s iridescent glow seemed to come from within, gleaming with a peculiar intensity that was as ominous as it was mesmerising.
There’s something about it that feels not quite right, Ben thought. He’d never been a superstitious man, but if he’d believed in such things, he would have said that there was an aura that emanated from it that was both humbling and terrifying.
Transfixed, Ben moved closer. There was, as he’d expected, an inscription on the tablet; but rather than being incised into the hard surface, the letters were raised, as if the strange substance had been liquified at an extreme heat then poured into a mould when molten and allowed to harden.
Ilhan stood by his side. ‘What is it, Ben? Why does it shine like that?’
‘I’ve no idea. I can guess, but that’s all it would be – a guess. I assume it’s been irradiated somehow or another.’
‘Radiation?’ Ilhan exclaimed, alarmed. ‘Is it safe?’
‘I honestly can’t say. But I’m not going to take any more risks than we already have. I don’t think I even want to touch it with my bare hands, to be honest.’
He looked around the room, every corner of which was well lit by the unearthly green glow. There was nothing there, other than the mummified alchemist and the tablet.
His mind was racing. ‘C’mon!’ he summoned Ilhan. ‘We’ve got that canvas sheeting down at the jeep. And the jerry cans . . . I’ll cut a hole partway into one of those. We can wrap this thing up in the canvas and slip it inside. We need to cover it in as much material as we can to absorb the radiation . . . if that’s what it is. Might fashion some sandbags to throw over it as well till we get it back to the city.’
As he spoke, Ben had turned and was walking swiftly back towards daylight, barely noticing the narrow passage that had caused him so much discomfort on the way into the cave. ‘Your contacts in Jerusalem – do you think they’ll be able to give us a well-insulated trunk? We’ll need something pretty solid to get it back to Istanbul safely.’
‘I’m sure they can, Ben.’ Ilhan sounded dubious. ‘But what are you going to do with it once you get it there?’
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ he responded. ‘You know me. Never one to plan too far ahead.’
‘Right. Have you got everything ready to go?’ Ben asked Ilhan, who stood nervously behind him.
They’d carted everything they could think of up to the cave to wrap the tablet, and Ben had contrived a casket to hide it in. He had two reasons for doing so: he wanted to make sure it was well hidden in case they attracted the interest of a military patrol or two between the Negev and Jerusalem; and he also wanted to do what he could to protect Ilhan and himself from any radiation that might have been leaching into the air around the peculiar object. He’d used Ari’s hunting knife to saw three edges of a square out of the side of one of the empty metal jerry cans, then levered it open like a sardine can. They’d used duffel bags to fashion sandbags that were now packed into the jeep’s tray in readiness for their departure, and Ilhan had also cut strips from the canvas he’d reclaimed from the Russian jeep that had escaped incineration and strapped them round Ben’s hands to form makeshift mitts. With his fists bound up in layer upon layer of canvas, Ben now looked like a very nervous professional boxer.
‘Do you think that’s going to be enough?’ Ilhan asked.
Ben hesitated. ‘Well, it takes a while for low-level radiation to do any damage. So get back to me in ten years or so and ask then.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better, Ben.’
‘Sorry.’ He took a deep breath and moved towards the back wall where Balinas’ cadaver sat nursing the Emerald Tablet. Heart pounding, he reached for it, the poisonous light reflecting onto his bound hands and shining in beams into his eyes. As he touched the slab gingerly, he felt his muscles tense. He was bracing himself, but for what, he wasn’t exactly sure. However, the air seemed to crackle with an electric tension like the moment before a lightning bolt strikes the earth.
Ben held his breath. He shifted the tablet slightly, leaning it away from where it had slumped into Balinas’ torso after almost two thousand years of mortal decay. A shift, a crack. Ben flinched. But he held the tablet tightly.
The symbiotic relationship between the long-dead alchemist and his treasure was broken. Ben lifted it away. He knew it was ridiculous, but for a moment he thought Balinas’ spidery fingers might suddenly spring to life and grasp at the thing he’d gone to such lengths to keep at his side. But – nothing.
‘Ilhan . . . quickly! Bring me the canvas . . . and the jerry can.’ Ben didn’t want to hold on to the uncanny stone any longer than he had to. He’d later think he’d been imagining it, but as it rested in his canvas-swathed hands, it seemed to vibrate with an unearthly resonance.
After Ilhan had laid the canvas out on the ground, Ben placed the tablet in the centre of the sheet and wrapped it tightly, then jammed it into the metal case and levered the roughly cut lid shut.
‘Toss me the other sheets!’ Ben said as he frantically unwound the binding from around his hands.
The two men parcelled the jerry can between multiple layers of canvas until it resembled a badly wrapped, and very large, birthday gift.
‘Well, that’s the best we can do, I suppose,’ said Ben. He tried to lift it. ‘Can’t do this on my own, I’m sorry, Ilhan.’
With a sigh, the Turk took the other side. ‘Fine.’
Manoeuvring the unwieldy – and now fairly heavy – object through the narrow corridor was a challenge. When Ben and Ilhan finally made it to the entrance, they were both puffing from the exertion and had broken out in a sweat.
The transition from the still, chilly air in the cave to the scorching heat outside was a shock. It took a moment for Ben’s eyes to adjust to the blinding white light.
‘Let’s take a breather before we take it down,’ he said.
‘No arguments from me, I can assure you,’ said Ilhan, panting.
‘Water?’ Ben offered his canteen to his friend.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Ilhan took it gratefully.
The two men sat in the meagre shade of the overhang at the entrance to the cave.
Suddenly, Ben heard something. He raised his hand. ‘Shh!’ he said. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ asked Ilhan nervously.
A low throbbing sound filled the air.
‘That. Can’t you hear it?’
‘I can’t hear anything. Are you sure? It’s probably just like the other night – bombers on their way to Suez.’
‘No – it’s different this time. And it’s getting closer. Here.’ Ben held out his hand. ‘Give me the binoculars.’
Ilhan handed them over reluctantly. ‘There’s nothing there, Ben. You’re imagining things.’
‘I just want to make sure. Can’t blame me for feeling a little jumpy.’
Ben scanned the horizon. He was right. Just above the desert sand, a black silhouette loomed and grew larger. ‘There! It’s coming from the south. Fast.’ He handed the binoculars back to Ilhan.
‘Is that a helicopter?’
‘Must be.’
‘Maybe they’ll pass us by.’
‘Maybe they
will. But we’ve got something worth taking now.’ Ben stood and began to lope towards the path leading down to the desert floor. ‘And if they decide to drop in, I want to make sure we’re ready for them.’
40
Negev Desert, Israel
Ben had set himself up a sniper’s nest behind a rocky outcrop overlooking the wreckage of the two Russian jeeps they’d left where they were, figuring that if the approaching helicopter was to land and the people inside it were looking for them, its pilot would choose a place where they’d left their footprints – literally and figuratively. Ben had more than enough ammunition to pick off any fighters that stepped off the aircraft, and from his elevated position, he’d be well defended from an assault on the ground. He’d only be exposed if they decided to take to the air again. Even then, he and Ilhan could seek refuge in Balinas’ cave.
‘This isn’t necessary, Ben,’ Ilhan said. ‘Perhaps they’re here because they’ve seen the smoke from the jeep and think there’s been an accident down there . . . They’re not necessarily here for us. Or the tablet.’
‘You’re right,’ said Ben, shifting the rifle butt from where it nestled into his shoulder and checking the sights. ‘And if that’s the case, they’ll have a poke around down there and then take off again. Don’t worry. I’m not going to just start shooting. Not till I know for certain they’re coming after us. I promise.’
As the helicopter approached the wrecked vehicles, it hovered, then slowly descended, its rotors kicking up a spiralling cloud of sand that quickly obscured the aircraft.
‘Right. Now we see what we’re dealing with,’ Ben said.
The rotors slowed and the whirling dust began to settle.
Ben took a deep breath and steadied himself. Although he was well hidden from below, there was no protection from the blazing sun that burned overhead. He felt the sweat on his forehead begin to bead and run towards his eyes. With a dusty hand, he wiped it away.
Once the rotors were spinning as slowly as a ceiling fan in the tropics, Ben saw movement within the aircraft’s metal chassis. A side door slammed open, and three figures stepped out.
‘No!’ Ben murmured, disbelieving, as his breath caught in his chest.
‘What?’ asked Ilhan as he raised the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Oh. Is that . . .?
‘Yes.’
There was something about her – the way she moved, the way she held her head.
You know you’ll never be over her, don’t you? a treacherous voice in his head declared.
His heart was pounding as he watched her walk assuredly across the sand, echoing his moves of the day before as she bent to inspect the broken pottery sherds and ancient stone tools that carpeted the ground.
Always such a damned professional, he thought with grudging admiration.
He snatched the binoculars out of Ilhan’s hands. She may have made some superficial changes to her appearance, but there was no denying it was her. And as much as he hated himself for it, he was paralysed again by the primal desire that washed over him every time he was near her.
Get a grip! he berated himself.
Ben felt another jolt of recognition when he turned his attention to the figure standing behind Essie.
‘Garvé,’ he snarled.
‘The Frenchman?’ Ilhan asked.
‘Yes.’ Ben was shocked. ‘This is no accident. How did they know we were here? They haven’t just stumbled on us – this is by design . . . how the fuck did they know?! No way that woman worked it out by herself. She’s good, but she’s not that good!’
Pounding blood buzzed in his eardrums as he lined the bead of his sights on Garvé’s forehead. ‘Well, there’s an unexpected upside to all this, anyway.’ Ben chambered a round and readied to shoot.
‘No! Ben, stop!’ Ilhan grabbed his friend’s forearm. ‘Think about it. They’ve got a helicopter. If you shoot the Frenchman, they’ll attack us from the air. There’ll be no escaping them!’
Ben clenched his jaw and, through the telescopic sight, watched the face he still knew intimately from the nightmares that woke him in the dead of night. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to see Garvé’s features disintegrate in a hail of bullets. But Ben also knew Ilhan was right. He’d have to shoot the Frenchman’s companions as well. And with the woman he’d known as Eris down there, even though he wanted to see her suffer, he knew he’d never be able to kill her.
‘Why does she have to fucking well be with him?’ he cursed.
She cared nothing for you . . . tried to destroy you. Why would you give her even a moment’s thought? he asked himself.
But he already knew the answer. Because it’s her.
‘Fuck it. You’re right,’ Ben said. ‘So – change of plans. No shooting . . . unless they decide to be difficult. And even then . . . flesh wounds only. Now, they’re still playing around down there – I need you to give them something to chase. Same tactic we used with the Russians. Get yourself somewhere they can see you, and let them follow you to the cavern. Make it look like you’ve seen them and are trying to run for cover. Lead them into the hidden room, but hide in a corner of the first chamber. When they get in there, all they’ll be interested in doing is seeing what’s in the hidden room. Hopefully they’ll be distracted enough by our old friend Balinas that they won’t see you behind them. Meantime, I’ll come up behind you, herd them into the tomb if they’re not already in there, and lock the door behind them. We hijack their pilot and get the tablet out of here, and he can fly back to retrieve them once we’re clear. Sound good to you?’ Even as he said it, Ben knew there was only the slimmest of chances it would work. There were just too many moving parts to the operation. But he couldn’t see any other alternatives.
‘I suppose so,’ Ilhan said dubiously. ‘I should go now?’
‘May as well. But try not to make it look like you’re leading them into a trap.’
‘But I am.’
‘Yes. But we don’t want them to know that.’
Ilhan took a deep breath and bolted out onto the plateau, kicking dust into the air as he had earlier in the day.
From his hidden vantage point, Ben saw Garvé look up as he caught sight of Ilhan moving about.
That’s it, you motherfucker . . . take the bait.
When he’d seen Garvé and Essie moving towards the pathway leading up to the plateau, Ben knew he had time to reposition himself closer to the cavern so he was ready to spring the trap once Ilhan had led them inside. He’d moved so he was now hidden behind a mound of boulders near the crevice in the cliff face where they’d also stashed the makeshift crate containing the Emerald Tablet.
He’d been relieved to see that the helicopter pilot had decided to stay with the aircraft. Although he couldn’t know who was at the controls, its markings told Ben it was from the British Air Force, so he assumed the uniformed pilot was a military man. Ilhan wasn’t going to be any use to him if he was forced to fight, and if Garvé and Essie had been accompanied by an experienced fighter, he would have been in trouble.
There was a third person in the group on the ground. But with the finicky way the spindly-framed stranger moved about the landscape, fanning himself with his straw hat, Ben knew immediately he wasn’t a physical threat. He had no intention of underestimating Josef Garvé, though. Or Mrs Essie Peters, for that matter.
The three figures crossed the plateau quickly, heading straight for the pitch-black gash in the rock.
As they neared the entrance, Ben held his breath, transfixed by the woman who led them. He was no more than thirty feet from her. A sudden blast of hot desert wind scoured the flat top of the mountain, carrying with it grit and sand and the smell of her. Ben squinted against the dust and watched her shield her own nose and eyes from the choking assault of airborne particles. As quickly as it appeared, it died away, and she dropped her hand back to her side.
Now that he was this close to her, he could see her expression. The tightness around her eyes and the set line of he
r mouth belied the confidence and composure in her body language.
Is it me you’re thinking of? he wondered. How do you feel, knowing you’re about to confront the man you betrayed? You put up a good show of it . . . but how cold-blooded are you, really?
‘The American – I didn’t see him. Where is he?’ Garvé’s voice was as repellent as he remembered it.
Don’t worry, you fucking demon, Ben thought. You’ll be seeing me soon enough.
‘He’ll be inside.’ Her voice. It carried the same husky undertones, though rather than the Greek accent she’d adopted when she’d been playing the part of Eris Patras, she now spoke with the refined cadence of a well-brought-up woman more at home in Knightsbridge than in a desert at the ends of the earth. Even in the crucifyingly hot desert air, a chill shiver of desire made him flinch. Who the hell are you?
Ben forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. Garvé won’t have come up here unarmed. Nor will she. Sure enough, Essie had a holster at her waist. If Garvé was carrying a weapon, it was concealed somewhere else. So, when I go in, I have to assume there’ll be at least two weapons.
‘So,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Would you like to take the lead, Adam?’
‘Me? Why me?’ whinged the third member of their party.
‘You’d rather a woman goes into danger before you?’ Garvé said.
‘Why not you?’
Garvé said nothing.
‘Fine.’ The Englishman sighed. ‘But you’d better back me up!’
‘We will. I promise.’
The man Ben now knew by the name Adam entered the chasm tentatively. Essie and Garvé followed. Neither had their weapons drawn.
Amateur move, Ben thought with relief. I’ll make you regret that.
He waited, counting down two minutes on his watch – more than enough time for them to make it into the hidden cavern.
Standing, he slung the rifle over his back from its strap and drew his own revolver, chambering a round so he was ready.
The Emerald Tablet Page 27
