The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Through the portholes she could see it was still pitch black outside. A cracked clock on the wall showed the time as just gone 3:30 a.m.

  Ferguson was sitting next to her, also on a cheap hard wooden chair. He was still hooded, with his hands bound behind his back.

  The white holdall lay at his feet.

  Directly ahead of her, a large African man was standing in front of a pallet. He was unusually tall, heavily muscled, and wore the regulation beret of the paramilitary. He had not been part of the snatch-squad in the Mercedes.

  She assumed he was the leader, Kimbaba.

  She took in all this information in a few seconds, before her eyes were magnetically drawn to what was behind Kimbaba, on the pallet.

  It was an object the size of a large packing trunk, shrouded under a beige tarpaulin.

  A cocktail of emotions flooded through her. She had been so preoccupied with what was happening around her that she had temporarily forgotten why she was there.

  But now, looking at the object veiled under the thick material, she was completely focused—finding it hard to believe she was not dreaming, and that a few yards from her sat potentially the greatest archaeological find of all time.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she might one day come face to face with the genuine Ark of the Covenant. Even though the voice of experience told her it was almost certainly a fake, she could not suppress her excitement at the thought it might be real.

  It was almost too much for her to take in.

  As she traced the outline of the object under the grimy canvas, she realized Kimbaba was speaking to her. “Let me apologize for the manner in which you have been brought here.” His English was good, although strongly accented.

  “You must also forgive the change in plan.” Despite the apologetic words, his expression was as hard as flint.“Someone was taking an unhealthy interest in us.” His eyes were flicking around, restlessly. “But my country is rich. We have friends, and have been able to find this quiet place for you to examine the…merchandise.”

  Ava winced at hearing the Ark described as ‘merchandise’—as if it was just another crate of whatever Kimbaba usually bought and sold. Contraband tin ore, she imagined, if he was plugged into the usual government-run black market circles in Kinshasa.

  He continued, nodding at Ferguson’s hooded and bound figure. “Your friend will stay where he is while you carry out the inspection.”

  Ava was barely listening to him. Her eyes were fixed on the tarpaulin.

  “We will have to check you first,” he announced. “Stand up.”

  Ava did as he asked, not taking her eyes off the object she had come to see.

  Kimbaba nodded to his wiry deputy in the doorway.

  Ava had not noticed the three militiamen standing off by the hatch. There had been more of them in the van. She assumed the others were guarding the rest of the boat.

  Masolo stepped forward. Reaching Ava, he began patting her down. She remained motionless—her hands still tied behind her back.

  He started with her upper body, then squatted down to rub her thighs, shins, and ankles. When he had finished, he stood again, and began patting her ribs once more—his hands lingering on her, his smug smile openly betraying his enjoyment at touching her.

  As his eyes connected with hers, he gripped her hips firmly and fixed her with a suggestive leer.

  Something inside Ava snapped.

  An anger had been building since the kidnapping back at the nightclub. She felt misled, mistreated, and bruised. And the last thing she was in the mood for was being touched up by one of Kimbaba’s men.

  Without warning, she kicked him viciously in the kneecap, and pulled away defiantly, her eyes blazing.

  Masolo crumpled to the floor, his face a mask of pain. He spat out a word she did not understand, but the sense was unambiguous in any language.

  Kimbaba seemed amused. He stepped towards her, and sliced through the rope binding her wrists,

  She rubbed her hands, grateful to get the circulation flowing again.

  Kimbaba smiled, took her by the arm, and walked her toward the tarpaulin. “This is a big day. One we will all remember for a long time.” He paused for effect. “Because you are going to tell the world what this is.”

  As they approached the pallet, something vibrated quietly on Kimbaba’s belt.

  He pulled the small rubberized phone off his beltclip, and answered it.

  After listening briefly, he hung up, his features expressionless.

  Walking across to Masolo, he said something to him in a low voice, before striding over to Ferguson, who was still tied to the chair.

  Kimbaba ripped the duct tape from around Ferguson’s neck and pulled the hood away roughly. “I’m very disappointed,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing.

  He stepped back, and made way as Masolo stalked over to Ferguson. In one swift movement, Masolo hooked his foot under one of the chair’s front legs, at the same time shoving Ferguson hard in the chest.

  Ferguson and the chair toppled over sideways. Without pausing, Masolo aimed a savage kick at his midriff.

  Ferguson grunted with the pain, bringing his knees up to his chest as Masolo kicked him again, this time in his kidney.

  Without pausing to think, Ava launched herself at Masolo. She caught him off guard, ramming her shoulder hard into his solar plexus, winding him, and sending them both crashing to the hard rusty floor.

  She had been quick and had the element of surprise, but he was stronger. He grabbed her right wrist with one of his large hands, and roughly spun her over onto her front. Ramming her face hard into the floor, he twisted her arm up behind her back with an animal brutality.

  A bolt of white-hot pain seared through her shoulder. She tried to push him away, but felt her strength ebbing as she was overcome by an overpowering urge to vomit.

  Masolo knelt on her to restrain her struggles. She was semi-paralyzed by the sheer agony of her shoulder, and could feel his breath on her neck and his knee grinding into the middle of her back. Twisting her head, she stared up at him defiantly, fuelled with adrenaline and rage, but unable to resist.

  Masolo looked quizzically at his boss, who nodded for him to keep her pinned down.

  Kimbaba stepped over to Ferguson and hunched over him. “Did you really think you could steal it from me?”

  Ava fought to keep her expression neutral.

  “You’ve made a serious error of judgement.” The militiaman’s voice was rising.

  Ferguson said nothing.

  Ava had no idea what Kimbaba was talking about.

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with?” He was working himself up into a fury, but still speaking slowly and menacingly. His tone was chilling. “We left a lookout at the warehouse, who saw your whole operation.”

  Ava still had no idea what he was talking about.

  What operation?

  She struggled to understand. Prince and DeVere had been with them until they were separated. They had not mentioned any attack on the warehouse. And there was nobody else involved as far as she knew.

  Was General Hunter playing some other game?

  Kimbaba was breathing heavily now. He moved round to the pallet and laid his hand on the rough canvas, stroking it thoughtfully.

  Turning, he looked back directly at Ferguson. “Do you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that four armed men just hit my warehouse?” His tone was coldly aggressive.

  When Ferguson answered, his voice was clear and measured. “A lot of people are interested in your ‘merchandise’. It could’ve been anyone.”

  Kimbaba’s eyes scanned the room rapidly. He pursed his lips, then looked at Ava—still on the floor with Masolo pinning her down.

  He seemed to have made a decision.

  Striding towards the three men by the door, he waved in the direction of the pallet. “Pack it away,” he ordered them

  He stopped at the door and spun to face Ava and Ferguson. “You’v
e just made a tactical error of great magnitude. Your governments will come to regret their decision.” He paused. “And so will you.” Despite the cold night air, his lined face was shining with sweat.

  Twisting her head, Ava watched in horror as Masolo pulled a syringe out of his dirty combat jacket pocket.

  Her eyes widening in fear, her body took over, kicking and writhing to get as far away from the needle as she could.

  But Masolo was too strong.

  As if in slow motion, she saw the needle puncture the skin of her exposed hip as he pushed it in hard.

  Before she could struggle any more, she was filled with a sudden rush of warm nausea, then everything went black.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  16

  River Ishim

  Western Suburbs

  Astana

  The Republic of Kazakhstan

  Ava awoke slowly.

  She struggled to rise through the mental fog of sleep, but a thick bitter haze hung over her, pushing her down.

  She was hot, and unbelievably thirsty. Her head was pounding, and the inside of her throat was dry.

  Forcing her eyelids open slowly, she was rewarded with bursts of shimmering black, purple, and white stars exploding across the back of her retinas.

  As her surroundings came half into focus, she saw she was lying on her back on the rusty floor of an old boat. It was an empty shell of dull brown metalwork, covered in layers of grease and dirt.

  There was something lying on the floor beside her.

  It took her a few moments to recognize Ferguson, slumped a few feet away.

  The effort of moving her eyeballs to take in the scene caused a fresh series of explosions in her head.

  She felt sick.

  Somewhere in the distance she could hear a faint buzzing sound. It was low and smooth—almost rhythmical. She struggled to work out what it was, but it eluded her.

  Out of the nearest smeary porthole, she could see the boat was moored in an old abandoned wharf next to a rundown railway bridge. The red-brown bricks were dirty and water-damaged—covered in stains and graffiti. The surrounding area was littered with old refuse—bottles, tins, and twisted plastic. A large scorched oil drum looked like it had last been used as a brazier. She guessed the area was home only to those who had nowhere better to go.

  She tried to remember why she was on the boat, but her thoughts were disjointed, confused.

  Struggling to piece her thoughts together, she suddenly remembered Masolo’s face, the needle, a swelling sense of warmth, then nothing.

  She had been drugged.

  That explained everything.

  That was why she felt so sick.

  As her memory of events began trickling back, she was suddenly aware of the stiffness in her shoulder where the wiry militiaman had twisted her arm, and the pain in her lower back where he had knelt on her.

  Looking about, she wondered how long she had been there, then realized from the light filtering into the cabin that it must be the following day.

  But despite the calm scene, she sensed something was wrong.

  Something did not fit.

  She coughed, her head still pounding, and glanced across at Ferguson.

  He looked fine. He was breathing regularly—his face was red-cheeked and healthy.

  She fought off the urge to sleep.

  The buzzing was still bothering her.

  It sounded familiar. But somehow out of place. Incongruous.

  What was it?

  Suddenly, her jumbled brain made the connection.

  The engine.

  The boat’s engine was on, ticking over slowly and quietly. It was purring smoothly—softly, but distinctly audible.

  She frowned, struggling to understand.

  Why was the engine running?

  She looked out of the porthole again. It was as she thought. The boat was not moving.

  Waves of light-headedness rocked her.

  The taste in the back of her mouth was foul and metallic.

  Then, from nowhere, the memory of why she was on the tug boat came flooding back.

  The Ark!

  She looked across to where the shrouded object had been resting the night before. The pallet was still there, but whatever had been on it was gone.

  Her mind drifted back to the buzzing.

  What was the engine doing on?

  Why was it running if Kimbaba, Masolo, and the Ark had gone? And if it was on, why was the boat not moving?

  She looked up at the porthole again, but the scene outside it remained unchanged.

  The boat was definitely stationary.

  She swivelled her eyes to glance again at Ferguson.

  He was insensible to it all.

  Through the mental fog, a disturbing idea suddenly occurred to her.

  She looked around the cabin more carefully, peering intently at the portholes and hatch.

  Then she saw it.

  There!

  There it was, in the corner of the hatchway, jammed into place by the lid—an ugly black rubber hose poking into the cabin, with a dark haze around its tip evidencing all too clearly the lethal sooty fumes pumping out of it.

  As her brain tried to take control of the situation, the adrenaline kicked into her system.

  She had no idea how long she had been breathing the poison, but knew that if she did not get out fast, she would drift back into unconsciousness.

  Possibly for ever.

  Perhaps Ferguson already had?

  He was closer to the hose.

  She tried to lift her arm to push herself up, but found to her horror that it would not move.

  The renewed effort triggered another bout of nausea.

  With no warning, a fuzziness began to descend, and she felt herself being pulled down by an immense fatigue. She was overwhelmed by the overpowering urge to sleep, suddenly more tired than she could ever remember. She began to wonder why she was even bothering with the effort of thinking about it all. If she was honest, it was easier just to be drifting. It was like being drunk. Perhaps she should simply enjoy it. She smiled to herself. It was not so bad.

  She could feel herself slipping uncontrollably into unconsciousness, like sliding into a warm bath.

  No!

  A voice thundered deep inside her.

  Move!

  The urgency of the voice triggered a memory. For a moment she was back outside Thal in Southern Waziristan. She was lying in a mud hut, delirious with a raging fever, while her fellow MI6 officer left her so he could push deeper into the north-western frontier, to make contact with a potential asset.

  She had lain hallucinating on the sodden straw until it was too dangerous for everyone if she stayed any longer. Wracked with fever, she had stumbled south for two days to Bannu, where she had found a UN rep and been put on a plane out of the country.

  On her febrile forty-eight-hour trek, she had been conscious that she was alone in one of the most dangerous regions on earth for a foreigner—especially a woman, and a western spy. But a deep animal survival instinct had pushed her relentlessly on.

  She had moved only at night, staying off roads and tracks, avoiding all human contact, holing up by day in whatever derelict shelter she could find.

  Although she had learned from being abandoned that the mission always came before any individual, the experience had also taught her how strong the mind could be, even when the body was badly damaged.

  But she was not sitting safely on the plane out of Bannu now.

  She was suffering from advanced carbon monoxide poisoning, along with the effects of whatever she had been injected with.

  Her vision was blurring.

  She knew she had get out of the cabin.

  She did not have the strength to stand, so would have to move onto her front and push herself up.

  Summoning what little energy she had, she tried to raise her right shoulder off the floor.

  For what seemed like an age, she
feared she did not have the strength.

  With increasing desperation, she blocked out all other thoughts except forcing her shoulder over. On the verge of passing out, she finally felt her body roll, and she flopped over onto her front.

  Her face was suddenly crushed painfully against the metal floor, but she barely noticed.

  She willed her arms to extend, and a kaleidoscope of flashes exploded in her head, but she kept pushing until she was on her knees.

  With a strength she did not know she possessed, she began to crawl.

  It was painfully slow at first, inching her way across the rusty metal floor towards the blistered wooden hatch cover. Her movements were drunken and uncoordinated, and she cut her hands on the sharp twists of metal sticking up from the floor. But she was oblivious to it.

  Her lungs were starting to burn from sucking down increasingly rapid breaths. Her body was crying out for oxygen. She knew she was inhaling poison, but gulped it down hungrily, unable to stop herself.

  As she got closer to the black cracked hose belching out its toxic gas, her head felt like someone was hammering red hot nails into it, and her mouth was on fire, as if she was drinking scalding water.

  She was teetering on the threshold of unconsciousness, half-hallucinating a nightmare in which she was being hounded by a clock counting inexorably down to nothingness.

  As she somehow reached the short flight of black steps, the darkness finally descended, and she blacked out.

  But she was only unconscious for a few seconds, before the sensation of retching brought her round for long enough to take a swipe at the hose nestling in the corner of the broken hatchway.

  She missed.

  Her vision was fading fast, and she realized she only had seconds before passing out again. Perhaps this time for good.

  With a resolve that came from some primal cortex of her brain, she powered herself up the decrepit stairs in one last burst of effort, hammering the warped wooden hatch lid off with her shoulder, sending the hose flying harmlessly out onto the rusty deck.

  As her legs gave way, she crashed through the hatchway, collapsing onto the surrounding wooden housing.