The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  DeVere was as slim as ever, despite being in his early sixties. He still sported the same distinctive dark-rimmed glasses he had worn for as long as she could remember, although she was surprised to see he was nearly completely bald, save for a horseshoe of white hair skirting the back of his head.

  “Let’s not hang about,” he announced jovially, climbing into the large four-wheel drive. “And it’s always a good idea to keep things locked down around here,” he added, pushing the button to close the window beside him.

  As the car pulled away, he turned to Ava with a warm grin. Reaching for her shoulders, he gave her a strong hug. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you!”

  Ava had spent the flight wondering how she would react when she saw him. Now she was looking at him sitting in the car next to her, she could feel the emotional conflict intensifying. He had once been a good friend, and she felt instantly warm towards him as the memories rushed back. Yet at the same time he represented a world she had fallen wholeheartedly out of love with—one she no longer saw the same way he did, and she knew it would be a gulf between them.

  “I should’ve known you’d be mixed up in this,” she answered, returning the hug quickly.

  “Well, you know, I’m not one to shy away from the interesting stuff.” He beamed at her before settling back into his seat. “Are you joining us again, then?” There was a sparkle in his eyes. “We’d be thrilled to have you back, you know. We don’t get your calibre very often.”

  She smiled briefly. “So who are the people holding the Ark?” she asked, deflecting the question, not yet ready to discuss her personal life with him, and not wanting to ruin the moment.

  DeVere glanced over at Prince, who appeared cramped and uncomfortable despite the size of the SUV.

  The tall American nodded.

  “They belong to the RMF,” he explained, his voice now serious, “a Marxist guerilla faction from Congo. As you know, Congo is a dramatically failed state, like Yemen or the Sudan. The war of 1998–2003, the ‘African World War’, was the deadliest conflict since the Second World War, and the aftershocks are still being felt. It may seem a long way away, but Congo is no sideshow. After Algeria, it’s Africa’s largest country—eighteen times the size of England.”

  He sat back in the SUV’s large upholstered seat. “Yesterday, a militia of the RMF, led by a minor warlord named Aristide Kimbaba, broke into the sacred compound of the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum and stole the Ark from the solitary guardian monk. There’s evidence they tortured the monk to death, although the picture is a little unclear as the body was incinerated beyond recognition when the building went up in flames.”

  Ava shuddered. Since leaving the Firm, she had not missed the violence that seemed to be an obligatory part of the background to every operation.

  DeVere continued. “The demands received from the RMF require the American and British governments to ensure the United Nations recognizes the RMF junta as the new military government of Congo. If we don’t, they’ll sell the Ark to the Iranians—which they rightly predict will set all Hell loose.”

  He paused. “At this stage, we have no option other than to take their claims and threats seriously. But before we make any irreversible decisions, we obviously need to verify if the Ark is genuine or not. Therefore, they’ve agreed to let in an inspector and a technical assistant.”

  Prince looked across at Ava. “Dr Curzon, you’re in charge of physically examining and verifying the Ark. We’ve put together a bag of equipment you might find useful—magnifiers, a microscope, regular and UV lighting, and a few tools. It won’t be the same as having the Ark in a lab, but I hope it’s adequate.”

  Ava nodded. She would clearly have to make do with whatever was available.

  “Major Ferguson, you’re Dr Curzon’s bag carrier. You’re also responsible for her security,” she added.

  “When’s the rendezvous?” he asked, glancing at his watch.

  “In thirty minutes, at the Republika Fountain,” DeVere confirmed. “The contacts will be driving a red Mercedes with a white stripe on the bonnet. They’ll take you directly to the Ark.”

  Ava stared out of the smoked-glass window. Beyond the city, the vast landscape was bleak and uninspiring. She had never been to the steppes before, and knew little of the region other than it had been a wilderness throughout history—infamous for its brutal Gulag camps, where millions of Soviet political prisoners were ‘processed’ from the 1920s to 1950s.

  A tourist poster at the airport had proudly proclaimed that Astana had been the capital of Kazakhstan since 1997, when the government had relocated its historical powerbase from ancient Almaty on the borders with Kyrgyzstan and China to Astana in the north, where the population was more resolutely Russian.

  Gazing out into the Kazakh night, Astana appeared to Ava just like she imagined a former Soviet city would—dull and monochrome, with a smattering of hi-tech buildings that had shot up since the fall of the Union.

  As they passed a spectacularly tall tower of twisted white latticework supporting an immense golden egg, she realized Prince was talking to her. “Dr Curzon, you and Major Ferguson need to get out here. Good luck.”

  It had been agreed that DeVere would stay in the car with the driver. He would note down the red Mercedes’s number plate, then tail it once Ava and Ferguson were inside.

  At the same time, Prince would be on foot in the area around the Republika fountain. Once she had seen Ava and Ferguson get into the Mercedes, she would jump into a waiting car and join DeVere in tailing them. At the same time, a vanload of Kazakh National Security Committee commandos would be in the vicinity on standby, in permanent radio communication with DeVere and Prince in case anything went wrong.

  Ava stepped out of the SUV and breathed in the cold night air, pulling her coat closer around her shoulders.

  The fountain was dead ahead. Through gaps in the traffic, she caught glimpses of its four monumental grey stone fish spraying jets of icy shimmering water high into the night air.

  She watched DeVere’s car move to the other side of the fountain. To her right, she spotted Prince stop by an all-night refreshment kiosk about twenty-five yards off. The man sitting in it looked cold and bored.

  Ava checked her watch.

  11:45 p.m. Still time to kill.

  Standing on the pavement side by side, she and Ferguson looked for all the world like a carefree tourist couple admiring the fountain. All that was missing were the guidebooks and cameras.

  The bag of equipment Prince had given her was on the pavement between them. It was a large white canvas holdall, doubling as the identifying signal for the militiamen to recognize them.

  “So you know all about me?” she asked, looking straight ahead and not at Ferguson. “The DIA file you had in Qatar seemed pretty detailed.”

  His expression remained fixed.

  “What about you?” she asked, aware she knew nothing about him. “What’s your role in this?”

  “I enjoy exotic travel,” he answered non-committally, as he continued to scan the traffic.

  Ava stamped her feet to warm them up. “You can do better than that,” she pressed him. “I know an ex-soldier when I see one.”

  He turned to look at the roads leading to the roundabout. “What do you remember of your hostage training?”

  Ava was in no mood for a lecture. “I always assumed I’d have a fulfilling relationship with my captors and develop Stockholm syndrome.”

  “I’m being serious,” he cut in, watching a group of drunken men approaching. “There are rules that could save your life.”

  “I can look after myself,” she answered bluntly, turning to look him full in the face. “I appreciate you coming along, but I didn’t ask for a babysitter, and I don’t need one—”

  He grabbed her arm firmly, nodding towards the far side of the fountain.

  Now visible through the shimmering silvery spray, she could see a red Mercedes with a white stripe on its
bonnet swinging around towards them through the traffic.

  She looked over to where DeVere was parked on the other side of the fountain.

  Good. He was watching.

  She had spent years of her life growing up in Africa avoiding putting herself or anyone else in unnecessary danger from warlords and militiamen. It was not a habit she was keen to break now, and she was reassured to know there was backup.

  As the Mercedes drew closer, she could feel her breath quickening.

  The men in the Mercedes spotted her, and she subtly glanced towards DeVere again to make sure he had seen them.

  Bad timing.

  A double-length articulated blue passenger bus was snaking around the fountain—completely blocking DeVere’s view of the rendezvous.

  Her heart began to beat faster.

  The bus appeared to be stationary as the Mercedes’s doors opened, and four men got out. They were wearing thick outer clothing and heavy woollen hats.

  Ava looked again in DeVere’s direction.

  His view was still blocked.

  She breathed deeply.

  She could see Prince over by the kiosk, furiously punching numbers into her mobile phone.

  Ferguson had also spotted the problem. He glanced across at Ava.

  “We continue,” she confirmed, anticipating his question. The blue bus would clear the roundabout in a moment.

  Ferguson signaled to the approaching militiamen. They covered the ground rapidly, closing in on her and Ferguson. As they did so, the Mercedes pulled away and rejoined the traffic.

  Ava felt a rough spike of adrenaline course through her.

  What was happening?

  This was not the plan.

  She looked across at Prince, who was speaking hurriedly into the microphone on her phone’s hands-free cord.

  As Ava glanced across at the Mercedes, she saw it exit the roundabout and drive off into the night.

  On the pavement, the militiamen were now no more than three yards away.

  Her senses were all firing as she looked back to where DeVere was parked.

  This was not good.

  DeVere had pulled out, and was now swinging around the roundabout, following the Mercedes.

  She took a deep breath. DeVere had obviously assumed she and Ferguson were in the Mercedes. But by now Prince must have explained to him what had happened, so he would just go around the roundabout and return to where he had previously been parked up.

  But she had no time to think about it any further. The four militiamen had moved around her and Ferguson, surrounding them. They had their hands deep in their coat pockets, and from the telltale bulges, it was clear they were holding concealed handguns.

  The plan had evidently changed.

  “Walk,” one of them ordered gruffly in a thick Congolese accent. “Quickly.”

  The group moved off, with Ava and Ferguson being steered by the armed men behind them.

  Ava scanned the road ahead for the replacement vehicle they were switching to. It seemed logical. The militiamen were being methodical, cleaning off any unwanted tails. In the old days, she would probably have done the same. Still, it was good to know that Prince, and by now hopefully DeVere, were close by and would simply follow the new vehicle.

  As they headed away from the roundabout, Ava could periodically feel the padded barrel of a handgun jabbing into her lower back. Around her on the pavement, pedestrians and evening revellers walked past, oblivious.

  With mounting concern, Ava realized she could not see any vehicles with open doors. She strained to look about in all directions, but could identify no one obviously waiting for them.

  What were they doing?

  Before she had time to think, the man behind her spoke again. “In here,” He indicated an open steel door, behind which Ava could hear the deep thump of heavy pulsating music.

  It looked like some sort of nightclub.

  As the men pushed her though the metal-reinforced entranceway, she felt a blast of warm air from the overdoor heaters as the earsplitting sub-bass thuds of the techno trance music hit her.

  Scanning the room quickly, she could just make out a long dark bar bathed in a neon blue-black glow. Disorientated by the light and noise, she had no time to register anything else before she felt a gun in her back again, propelling her forwards, more roughly this time.

  The militiaman steered her towards the grey steel door of an industrial elevator being held open by another member of the team, clearly waiting for them.

  As she was shoved into the elevator, Ferguson glanced towards her, and his expression told her everything she needed to know.

  These guys were professionals.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  7

  Bar Akmola

  Saryarka District

  Astana

  The Republic of Kazakhstan

  It was late when Uri’s taxi dropped him off at the Bar Akmola in Astana’s north-east Saryarka district. It was the industrial part of town, rough and dilapidated—cluttered with rundown Soviet-era buildings.

  After paying the driver, he pushed through the bar’s battered door to reveal its shabby interior—a tawdry world where regulars blotted out the cold and the grinding monotony of life with cheap vodka.

  Uri immediately saw the liaison officer across the long smoky room. His white logo-plastered Lokomotiv Astana football shirt was distinctive without drawing unwanted attention.

  “Do you have the correct time?” Uri asked, approaching the table. “My watch has stopped.” He tapped it. “Freebie from a catalogue.”

  The man looked up at Uri. “Sorry.” His tone was sarcastic. “I guess that’s why I missed my supper. Again.”

  Uri glared at him. He didn’t have time for this.

  Clearly sensing Uri’s irritation, the man adopted a more professional tone. “All right—yes, I set my watch from the television news every day.”

  Uri pulled out a greasy chair from under the low wooden table and sat down facing him.

  “So this is a fun country,” Uri smiled mechanically.

  “I love it here,” the man replied, his voice heavy with irony. “I was bored of the sunshine and bikinis of Haifa anyway. I prefer the coldest capital on earth. The standard of living is great, too. I’m having a ball. My wife can’t understand why we didn’t come here before on holiday.”

  Uri felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely fed up.

  The man held out his hand. “Zvi. Zvi Ehrenwald. Diplomatic liaison.”

  Uri shook the offered hand. “So, what can you tell me?”

  Zvi did not seem surprised Uri had not reciprocated with his own name.

  He took a swig of his beer. “When I heard you were coming, we got our friends in the Militsiya, the local police, to pull some guys off the street—middle-ranking hoods from the local crime families who are always happy to cooperate in return for certain accommodations.”

  Uri was watching him closely.

  “You’re looking for a group of Africans, right? Heavily armed?” Zvi looked at him expectantly.

  Uri nodded.

  “Try Omsk Street. You can’t miss it—a dark green warehouse, smaller than the others. Seems a bunch of Africans have been seen coming and going there recently. Word is they flew in on a private plane with some kind of merchandise.”

  “Thanks.” Uri made a mental note not to have anything to do with the local families. “What about practicalities?”

  Zvi reached down to his feet and passed Uri a tatty dark blue rucksack under the table. “There’s a .22 Beretta, twenty clips of ammunition, keys to a brown saloon car with a full tank parked across the street, and keys to a safe flat nearby. There’s a map with directions to the flat in there, as well as a number you can call twenty-four hours a day.”

  Uri took the bag. “Thanks, achi.” He stood up to go. “Have a nice night.”

  “Count on it,” Zvi answered. “I bet that redhead in the black lace miniskirt over the
re’s dying to party with an overweight married Jewish guy in a borrowed football shirt.”

  Uri shook his head. “And I thought you diplomatic boys all led such dull lives.”

  Zvi walked up to the bar and ordered another beer. “Maybe not the redhead,” he smiled at Uri, “but seeing as I’m working late tonight, a few more beers on the Institute won’t hurt.”

  Uri slapped him on the shoulder before slinging the rucksack over his shoulder and making for the door.

  Outside, he took a deep lungful of the cold night air.

  He had work to do.

  DAY TWO

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  8

  Diamonds Nightclub

  Yesil District

  Astana

  The Republic of Kazakhstan

  Prince had seen it all unfold from her vantage point at the all-night refreshment kiosk.

  When she realized DeVere's view of Ava and Ferguson was blocked by the bus, she punched his number furiously into her mobile phone, angry with herself for not having it on speed-dial. But too late. When DeVere answered, she could hear the engine noise of his car revving as his driver swung into the traffic to follow the Mercedes.

  “Stop!” she yelled into the microphone, breaking into a run as she pursued Ava, Ferguson, and the militiamen along the pavement. “The red Mercedes is a decoy. They’re on foot. I’m following.”

  Through the crowds, she saw them turn and enter a metal door under a flashing sign reading: Diamonds Nightclub.

  Once inside the hot windowless box, the noise of the throbbing music drowned out whatever DeVere was saying into her ear in reply.

  Looking around, she instantly saw the bank of industrial elevators to her right. There were three of them. According to the colourful graffiti on the wall, each floor of the building offered a dance-floor playing a different style of techno music.

  The dull doors of the middle elevator were already closing, and she just had time to see the militiamen, Ava, and Ferguson crammed inside its shabby metal interior before the doors clicked shut and the red LED number above the control console starting to increase.