The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  He sneered. People were so unobservant. They wandered blindly around their pointless lives, never seeing what lay right in front of their faces.

  He stretched out a slightly trembling hand, and shuddered at the small electrical charge he felt as his fingers closed around the cold black glass.

  He closed his eyes to savour its power.

  At last.

  He had waited so long, and now he could finally feel its energies coursing through him.

  He saw before him the terrible and wondrous annual Aztec ceremony. A young man was dressed as the fearsome god Tezcatlipoca for a full year, honoured in the court, and ritually seduced again and again by four nubile ceremonial wives. At the year’s end, he climbed the pyramid and was offered to the god of the smoking mirror—his chest cracked open and his steaming beating heart held aloft as a bloody living sacrifice before his flesh was eaten and his head hacked off, cleaned out, and displayed on the skull rack.

  Malchus let the image fade, and moved forward in time, still gripping the mirror tightly.

  Now he was in sixteenth-century Mortlake—a town just west of London. It was night-time, and he was inside an Elizabethan room—the smoky candles illuminating a low-ceilinged study with leaded casement windows. Sitting at the Table of Practice, he could see Dr Dee, with his high white ruff and black skull cap, his lined elderly face shining with perspiration as he pored over the mirror, reading in its smoky black surface the mysteries of the universe revealed by the angelic hosts.

  Malchus pulled himself slowly out of the scene.

  Not yet.

  He opened his eyes and put the mirror down, careful to check his back was still blocking the security guard’s view.

  Patience.

  He breathed deeply and counted to ten.

  Now.

  Reaching into his leather satchel, he pulled out a replica of the mirror and a small sealable watertight bag.

  He looked at the two mirrors side by side, and felt an icy chill run through him.

  They were identical.

  No one would be able to tell them apart.

  It had been simplicity itself to obtain the duplicate. He had given the elderly glass-cutter photographs of the original mirror—which were easy to find in books on Dee, and the old man had visited Case 20 in the Enlightenment Gallery numerous times to ensure he had exactly the right colour of volcanic obsidian and that he cut and polished it accurately. For a craftsman of his experience, it was child’s play.

  Checking that the guard was still reading his book, Malchus smoothly placed the reproduction mirror onto the padded tray in front of him, and slipped the real one into the sealable plastic bag.

  Simple.

  Standing up, he lifted his grey mac off the back of the chair where he had draped it. As he unfolded the material to put it on, he dropped the watertight bag into a large poacher’s pocket he had specially ordered to be sewn into the mac’s lining.

  The guard looked up. “Finished, sir?”

  Malchus shook his head, grimacing. “My back gives me pain. I need to stretch. I’ll have a coffee in the excellent café across the road. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “No problem, sir,” the guard eyed the table, checking all five objects were still there. “Just knock on the door when you want to come in again.”

  Malchus nodded, and headed out into the corridor, the mirror nestled safely inside the folds of his mac.

  He retraced his steps along the route Pamela Richards had brought him earlier. He had memorized it carefully, noting all the doors leading off it.

  Slipping into the washroom he had spotted without needing to ask her, he made for one of the old shiny wooden-doored cubicles, pushing its brass handle, and locking himself in.

  Once inside, he was relieved to see his research had been accurate. The plumbing in the non-public parts of the building had not been modernized, and the Victorian cubicle was like thousands of others in old English institutions up and down the country, exactly as he had expected it to be.

  Above the large rectangular porcelain bowl and smooth mahogany seat, a short shiny brass pipe led up to a white porcelain cistern tank bolted to the wall with curled wrought-iron brackets.

  He gently lifted the cistern’s lid, wincing at the grating sound as it came free. Inside, the cistern was full of clear water, and a large red limestone-stained ball bobbed on a brass rod, operating the water flow system for refilling the tank.

  As he had anticipated, there was plenty of room, and he slipped the sealed bag containing the mirror into the water, carefully wedging it into the side behind the refill pipe so it did not obstruct the ball and rod. When it was done, he replaced the lid.

  Back in the public part of the museum, he made his way out of the building, across the esplanade filled with tourists taking photographs, and into the café. He chose a seat by the window, where he sat sipping the hot liquid, impatient to be done here and to start work back home.

  When he had drained the last of the bitter coffee, he headed back into the museum, and up to the private study room.

  The guard let him in without fuss. He hung his mac over the chair once more, and sat back at the table.

  He had nothing more to do for the afternoon, so leafed through the folder of articles on Dr Dee that Pamela Richards had given to him.

  There was nothing in them he did not know. It was the usual pointless academic dross—obsessively focusing on trivial biographical details, completely missing the importance of the ancient traditions Dee followed.

  He despised people like Professor Schottmüller. What pathetic lives they led. What was the point of knowledge without power?

  He checked his watch repeatedly and waited patiently until its hands showed it was half past five. He wanted to be sure the building would be emptying of back-room staff keen to get home for the day.

  Feigning a stretch and a yawn, he stood up and turned to the security guard. “That’s everything, thank you, Peter.”

  The guard stood up, and put his book on the seat before heading to Malchus’s table. “You’re welcome. I’ll just have to check the objects, sir.”

  Malchus stiffened.

  The guard walked over to the table and picked up a clipboard. He read off the items and checked they were in the trays. “Well, that all seems to be in order, sir.”

  Malchus put his coat on and turned to leave. He could not believe the museum’s idiocy. How could they trust priceless objects to a security guard who probably would not have realized if he had swapped the mirror for one made of sugar pink plastic?

  The guard held out his hand. “I’ll just need to check your bag, sir.”

  Malchus froze. “Yes, of course,” he answered robotically.

  The guard took the leather satchel off the table, unzipped it, and peered inside. Malchus knew what he would find. A notepad and pencil. Ruler and callipers. Camera equipment. And the impression pad.

  Damn.

  He should have put the impression pad into the cistern too.

  He felt in his pocket for the knife. He could not allow the guard to find the impression pad and create a scene. That would cause delays and questions. Doubtless they would soon find out he was not Professor Schottmüller.

  He could not let that happen.

  Inside his pocket, he flicked open the knife’s blade and locked it, preparing to do what was necessary.

  The guard zipped the bag up again and handed it to Malchus. “That’s fine, sir.”

  Malchus breathed a sigh of relief. He would have no problem ending the guard’s worthless life. But it would be messy, and the last thing he needed was unnecessary police involvement.

  “Thank you again,” Malchus replied with a formal nod, taking his hand out of his pocket, picking up the bag, and heading for the door.

  Once in the corridor, he made straight for the washrooms, and the cubicle he had visited earlier.

  There was no one in it, and he locked the solid wooden door, before again removing the c
istern’s heavy white porcelain lid.

  His heart beat harder as he felt around in the water—but his fingers quickly found the bag and fished it out of the tank.

  Pulling his prize from the wet bag, he slid it into his pocket, and flushed the plastic bag down the bowl.

  After washing his hands, he stepped out into the hallway, and headed briskly for the door leading back into the public part of the museum.

  Reaching it, he heard a familiar voice. “Professor Schottmüller?”

  He turned.

  It was Pamela Richards. She was running towards him.

  With alarm flaring, he forced himself to breathe—slowly.

  She reached him in seconds.

  “I was just in the room checking the objects,” she began breathlessly.

  Malchus felt a rush of anger washing over him.

  Stupid interfering woman.

  He looked about quickly. There was no one else in the corridor, and he could see no security cameras.

  He felt for the knife again. The blade was still locked open.

  No one was going to disrupt the work.

  “I went back to collect this,” she continued. “And saw that … .”

  Malchus looked down at the folder of academic articles on Dee she was carrying. As he did so, he scanned again for any other movement in the corridor.

  There was none.

  They were alone.

  He tightened his grip on the knife.

  “… you had been reading them.” She paused. “I just wondered if you wanted to keep the folder? I had the articles copied from the master file for you—so you’re welcome to take them with you.”

  She handed him the folder, smiling. “I know how much bother it can be to get copies of articles from some of the more obscure academic journals.”

  He exhaled deeply, and forced a smile. “Thank you, Mrs Richards. You’ve been most kind.” He took the folder she was holding out. “You’ve helped me very much today. In fact, you’ve no idea how much.”

  “Our pleasure,” she answered. “Thank you for visiting. Do, please, come again.” With that, she turned and headed back down the corridor.

  Malchus tucked the folder under his arm and left the museum quickly, joining the massed crowds of tourists spilling out onto the narrow streets of Bloomsbury.

  In no time he was gone, lost in the London evening, along with one of the most famous black magic objects in history.

  DAY FIVE

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  28

  Burj al-Arab Hotel

  Dubai

  The United Arab Emirates

  The Arabian Gulf

  It had been late the previous night when Ava had arrived in Dubai. A car had been waiting for her at the airport, but she had been too exhausted to take up the driver’s offer of a tour of the nocturnal city. Instead, he had merely whisked her speedily through the streets of skyscrapers and onto the hotel’s private causeway, from where she had got her first close-up look at the iconic building shaped like a dhow’s billowing sail.

  On being ushered inside, she had been startled to find herself standing on a luxurious blue, cream, cerise, and apricot carpet in the unmistakable shape of the mystical vesica piscis. Looking up, she saw the same shape was echoed on the ceiling, where a vast curvaceous sculpture of a three-dimensional mandorla hung in amber and gold. She had never seen the ancient magical symbol in Arabia before, where anything redolent of the occult had long been banished.

  Looking around, she had been equally amazed to find the hotel had no check-in desk.

  Instead, a personal butler in white tie and tails had materialized, as if from nowhere. He had shown her to a seventeenth-floor suite, checked her in, and quietly made the necessary arrangements for her comfort. Before finishing, he had laid out a pile of complimentary brochures and vouchers for her.

  Glancing briefly at them, she had immediately spotted a thick black envelope embossed with the same astrological symbol for Leo as on the mini-disc Saxby had given her.

  When the butler had finally disappeared, she had torn open the envelope to find a stiff black card informing her in gold lettering that the midday previewing of the Ark would take place in the hotel’s library.

  Still tired from the ordeal in Kazakhstan, and now with more jetlag, she had crawled upstairs. Ignoring the thirteen different pillow options and the interchangeable mattress cassettes for optimum comfort, she had simply collapsed into the gargantuan bed, and fallen asleep immediately.

  But now the bright Gulf light was streaming in from around the curtains, and she awoke feeling rested and refreshed.

  Dressing quickly, she decided to explore.

  Looking around her suite, it was quickly evident that she was not in a typical hotel—more a sheikh’s palace. When Saxby had said a suite had been reserved for her, she had pictured a pleasant but ordinary hotel room with a small adjoining sitting area.

  She could not have been more wrong.

  Her ‘room’ was split over two floors. There was a chandeliered double-height hallway, sweeping marble staircase with gold and silver banisters, panoramic bedroom, sitting room, living-dining room, bar, kitchen, dressing room, and an intricately mosaicked bathroom that alone was bigger than most hotel rooms she had ever stayed in.

  The whole suite was decked out in a riot of gold leaf, deep plush fabrics, exotic woods, and Carrara marble. Everything oozed opulence that even the most lavish spenders had probably only dreamt of. The butler had proudly informed her that the building was decorated in over fifteen thousand square feet of twenty-four carat gold leaf. As she flipped through the brochures on the table, she was amazed to learn there were seven suite options. More opulent ones came with their own private elevators, cinemas, and other refinements for the truly discerning visitor.

  Leaving her room to stroll around the building, she had never imagined that places like this existed. It was as if she had stepped into an Arabian palace from a Walt Disney set of The Thousand and One Nights. Every corner she turned opened onto a fountain strewn with rose petals or orange blossoms, or a set of doors in hammered gold leading to an incensed majlis.

  Exploring further, she found the famous helipad-tennis-court jutting precariously off the twenty-eighth floor, and even discovered a basement seafood restaurant that she could only reach via a submarine simulator.

  The assault on her senses was so sustained she soon started to feel numb.

  It occurred to her that people had not built or lived so decadently since the Roman Empire hit its dizzy heights of excess.

  The contrast with battle-scarred and rubble-filled Baghdad could not have been greater. They were both world-famous Middle-Eastern cities only eight hundred and fifty miles apart, but it may as well have been a light year.

  Eventually, dazed by the extravagant and at times surreal surroundings, she headed back to her room, where she opened her bag and pulled out the books she had brought with her.

  If she was going to identify and assess the Ark, then she needed to remind herself of a few things.

  She padded over to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of juice, then settled down on the cushion-strewn sofa to reacquaint herself with some of the finer details of gold working in the late Bronze Age.

  After a few moments, a thought occurred to her, and she got up to hunt through the suite’s various drawers for the usual Bible left by the Gideons.

  Then she remembered she was in Arabia.

  Glancing up at the ceiling, she soon found the little qiblah arrow pointing the way to Mecca.

  She telephoned the concierge instead, and within a few minutes her butler appeared with a pristine-looking Bible wrapped in a luxuriously thick embroidered cloth.

  She flipped it open at the book of Exodus, turned to chapter twenty-five, and started reading:

  Have them make an ark of acacia wood … . Overlay it with pure gold, both inside and out, and make a gold moulding around it. Cast four gold rings for it an
d fasten them to its four feet, with two rings on one side and two rings on the other. Then make poles of acacia wood and overlay them with gold. Insert the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark to carry it. The poles are to remain in the rings of this ark; they are not to be removed. … Make an atonement cover of pure gold … . And make two cherubim out of hammered gold at the ends of the cover. Make one cherub on one end and the second cherub on the other; make the cherubim of one piece with the cover, at the two ends. The cherubim are to have their wings spread upward, overshadowing the cover with them. The cherubim are to face each other, looking toward the cover. Place the cover on top of the ark and put in the ark the tablets of the covenant law that I will give you. There, above the cover between the two cherubim that are over the ark of the covenant law, I will meet with you and give you all my commands for the Israelites.

  Further on, there was a description of more gold working, when the Hebrews had become bored waiting for Moses to come back down the mountain with instructions from their new God. So they made an idol to an old one on the orders of Aaron, Moses’s brother. He commanded them:

  “Take off the gold earrings that your wives, your sons and your daughters are wearing, and bring them to me.” So all the people took off their earrings and brought them to Aaron. He took what they handed him and made it into an idol cast in the shape of a calf, fashioning it with a tool. Then they said, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up out of Egypt.”

  It was clear to Ava that what was being described in both cases was advanced metallurgy.

  If the wooden core of the Ark was covered in gold, its makers would have required detailed knowledge of building and firing a crucible to melt the gold, and experience in beating the hot metal into even sheets.