The Templar Inheritance

by Mario Reading

  Overcoming his revulsion, Hart gathered up the legs and tucked them inside Ronas’s coat. Only then did Bemo allow himself to be lifted up and placed against his father on the frame. The boy made no sound during this time. But still he held onto his stomach and refused to allow Hart to look beneath his fingers. Hart decided that there was little use anyway in knowing what lay beneath the boy’s clasped hands, as he had neither medicaments nor bandages to offer – he would only be adding to Bemo’s discomfort by forcing the issue. In this case the boy’s instincts were probably sound.

  The sun was well over the hills now. Hart felt furiously unprotected. He started along the track, obsessively searching ahead of himself for the telltale trace of other mines. Whenever he could, he zigzagged from one side of the track to the other – even clambering over rocks, on occasion, using as his logic that thirty-year-old landmines were less likely to be concealed in broken terrain than on a main track.

  Behind him, on the horse, Bemo started to groan. Hart stopped what he was doing and searched through Ronas’s coat for the gourd that he knew hung there. Thank Christ it was intact. He gave Bemo some water to sip, and then bathed the boy’s face with his bare hands in an effort to afford him a little extra comfort. At any moment he expected an Iranian border patrol, drawn by the sound of the explosion, to appear over the horizon and take them in. Either that, or a sniper’s bullet. He did not know which would be preferable.

  Once, when they reached a fork in the road, he signalled to Bemo that he should tell him which way to go. The boy indicated right with his elbow, and Hart fell into line again, his own stomach clenching and unclenching with fear.

  They began a rapid descent on a rocky track, and Hart became more confident that there would be no more mines hidden in such an unforgiving place. He was desperate for a drink of water himself, but knew that he must keep their small reserve for Bemo, who was drifting in and out of consciousness with alarming regularity.

  Fearing that the boy would die if he allowed him to sleep, Hart began asking Bemo for directions at every opportunity. Each time the boy signalled right by raising his elbow, and each time Hart began to doubt more and more what the boy was telling him. Was this really the way to the village? Or were they heading in a long looping circle that would eventually take them back up the mountain again? He had no choice but to follow Bemo’s lead, as he knew for a certainty that, however hard he tried, he would not be able to find his own way back into Iraq. There was no alternative, therefore, but to go forward into Iran – no option but to trust to the boy’s undoubted strength of will, which somehow shone through his dirt-caked face despite the horror of being supported upright on the horse by his own father’s dead and mutilated body.

  Two hours later, with the sun blazing down on them, Hart began to hallucinate. Ronas had begun to smell, and Hart imagined that it was he, and not Ronas, who was physically disintegrating. A number of times he stopped walking to open his coat to see if he had not, in fact, been wounded himself, and hadn’t realized it. Bemo was unconscious now, and Hart forced himself to go back and check on the boy’s wound in an effort to break the spell engulfing him. But still, even in this state, Bemo would not allow his hands to be prised apart. Hart moistened his fingers with water and pressed them to Bemo’s lips, but the boy would not wake up. Hart imagined himself walking eternally around the Azerbaijan mountains leading a horse with two desiccated bodies attached to it.

  He took up the halter and set off again. Once, they came to a stream, and he encouraged the horse to drink its fill. He drank himself, when the horse had finished, and replenished the gourd. In the distance, far across a ravine, he saw two shepherds walking behind an immense flock of sheep, but he was too far away to risk shouting, and he did not wish to draw unnecessary attention to himself. For all he knew the men would turn him and the boy over to the authorities. If that were to happen, Bemo would be in a worse position than the one he was in already. Hart doubted very much whether the Iranian authorities would give the boy any medical attention whatsoever under those circumstances. He would probably be shot outright. And what would happen to Hart himself didn’t bear thinking about.

  Hart had no idea when he first became aware of the village. He must have been looking at it for some time without actually seeing it. He led the horse, which was limping badly by now, down along a gully and across a small escarpment. One or two people emerged from their houses to watch his progress. They looked like ants. He raised an arm and called out, but his voice emerged as a croak. One of the ant women began running towards him. Then they were all running, old men, women and children. A mass of ants. An ant exodus.

  Hart stumbled onwards, an absurd grin plastered over his face. Eventually, beyond his immediate vision, he felt the rope being taken from his hands and the horse led away. He blinked a few times in the sun, then continued his trudging. A hand stayed him. He turned towards the owner of the hand, his face screwed up in mute enquiry.

  Nalan.

  Now he really must be hallucinating. Yes. That was it. He was out of his head. How could ants run anyway? And what was Nalan doing here?

  The hand touched him again.

  Then he was enfolded in a familiar embrace and he knew.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Hart slept all the rest of that day and half the following night. He awoke in pitch darkness with no idea of where he was. He stumbled out of bed and threw open the door of the hut in which he had been sleeping.

  A thin moon lit up the surrounding buildings. Memory came back to him in a rush. He was still in the same village he had entered with the wounded Bemo and with Ronas’s dead body maybe twelve hours before. Nothing, bar the time of day, had changed. He was wearing the same reeking coat and the same reeking clothes – only his stubble was a little more pronounced. And that was it. Not even a dog was barking.

  He stood in the centre of the clearing and looked up at the mountains. The reality of his present position struck him as crazy. Had he been dreaming that Nalan was there? But no. She had seemed flesh and blood, surely. He remembered her quietly translating all that had happened for the benefit of the head man and his council. She had then led Hart out of the council building and into the dust-strewn square. Everything had been conducted with a curious formality. Hart remembered thinking that this was Iran, and even if these people were broadly sympathetic to him because of his connection to Nalan, and because of what he had done to bring their injured and dead down from the mountain, they were still essentially alien. Nalan could not afford to be seen to be too intimate with him. Not like at Pank. It would only take one person to give him away to the border authorities and destroy them all.

  Hart walked over to where he remembered there being a communal well. He unhooked the gourd, scooped up some water from the trough, and drank.

  He heard footsteps behind him. He turned. A man he did not recognize was approaching from one of the huts. The man inclined his head and saluted with his hand above his brow. Hart remembered what Nalan had told him and returned the salute.

  ‘I am Elwand,’ said the man. ‘I am Nalan’s cousin. I am pleased you are awake. I am going to drive you to Solomon’s Prison.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out as a hiss, as if the speaker was not used to speaking English, and was having to make a superhuman effort to make himself understood. ‘It is good time to go. I have rope. You must eat food in car. This way you climb down before dawn, look, and then be away.’

  ‘And Nalan?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Will I see her?’

  The man cocked his head to one side like a bird dog. ‘When you have what you come for. Then maybe.’ Elwand walked towards a battered Peugeot 605 parked at the edge of the clearing. The car was painted such an indistinct colour that it blended perfectly with its surroundings to the point of invisibility. ‘Please bring the turban you were wearing on the mountain.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to put it on.’

  ‘
I shall do it.’

  Hart’s embarrassment deepened. This was not going the way he had imagined it. Not at all. ‘And these people? Ronas? Bemo?’

  ‘Ronas is dead. You know this. Today, when it is light, they will bury him. Bemo has bad stomach. He is very ill. If you leave him on the mountain he die. This village is grateful to you. They will be of service to you. They are happy for Ronas’s legs. Now they bury him properly. As Allah made him. They owe this to you.’

  Hart washed himself at the well. It was becoming clearer to him by the minute that Elwand was not a man to mince his words. When he was finished with his cursory wash he collected his turban from the hut and hurried towards the Peugeot. Elwand was waiting for him.

  ‘You climb in back.’ He pointed towards the boot. ‘There is security post ten kilometres down road. You must not be seen. Later you come out.’

  ‘But I can’t fit in there.’

  ‘Then you not travel. Stay here. Return to Iraq. Is okay with me. I do this because you pay Nalan and she pay me.’

  Hart climbed into the boot. It wasn’t quite as bad a fit as he had imagined. Elwand handed him two oranges and a bottle of water. Then he closed the lid.

  Hart positioned himself as comfortably as he could against a massive coil of rope and concentrated on controlling his breathing. He wasn’t, generally speaking, claustrophobic, but this was an exception. Fortunately, there was just enough air inside the luggage shell to be bearable, as the back seat of the car was broken. If he craned his neck he could even see the left side of Elwand’s head round the edge of the smashed seat. It occurred to him that the car may have been used for this purpose before.

  The coil of rope soon became his main point of reference. If someone had bothered to procure a few hundred metres of rope, then it was hardly likely that they would betray him, was it? It was clear that they intended him no harm, wasn’t it? What he was doing wasn’t actually against the Iranian state, of course. He wasn’t harming anyone by it. It was just semi-insane. Hart had always known that he was susceptible to women, but this was ridiculous. Thoughts such as these echoed around his head like so many angry gnats. The more he tried to think of something else, the more the thoughts imposed themselves upon him and flooded his mind with trivia.

  Twenty minutes into the ride Elwand slowed down and then stopped the car. Hart heard the car door open and Elwand get out. He heard the crunch of Elwand’s shoes across the stone track. Then voices. He waited for the boot to be thrown open and for rough hands to drag him out. Nothing happened.

  He heard more voices. Then laughter. Hart was so hyper alert by now that he thought he could recognize the particular sound that Elwand’s trainers made as they returned to the car. They were accompanied by the heavier sound of boots. A soldier then. He was lost. What a stupid, bloody stupid way to go. Drifting with the breeze. Not taking control of your own destiny. Just drifting.

  The voices started up again close by the car. Hart heard the sound of a match being struck. The sudden catch voices make when their owners are smoking.

  He lay in the boot and tried to concentrate on not wanting to cough. A dry cough had been building in his throat for some minutes now, and he had been suppressing it. He felt around for the water bottle but was unable to find it. He began to swallow compulsively, massaging his throat with his fingers. The voices were right beside the car. Almost on a level with where he was lying. If he coughed he was lost.

  Hart felt one of the oranges beneath his hand. He tore into it with his fingers, raised the orange to his mouth, and sucked greedily on the liquid. Anything to stop this infernal tickle. But the orange only made it worse.

  Someone slapped the car’s body shell and Hart almost leapt out of his skin. But it was only a goodbye. Whoever had hit the car had struck it as a goodbye.

  He could hear the heavy boots of the soldier retreating back across the stones. The car canted a little as Elwand got into his seat. The engine roared into life. Hart let go of his cough, certain enough, now, that it would be concealed by the engine noise. Christ, though, this wasn’t a way to live one’s life. What had he been thinking of, coming here? Talk about a wild goose chase. Talk about sheer unadulterated insanity.

  The car bumped down the track. Ten minutes into this new journey it stopped. The boot was opened. Hart climbed out. He felt like an old man. ‘That was a bit close, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘I mean dangerous.’

  Elwand shook his head. He was busy retying Hart’s turban. ‘Dangerous? No. This man I know. With another, it would be dangerous. But this man is easy man. I just have to sign register for visit village. I tell him I go courting. He laugh. We share cigarette. Not all like this. Now you sit in front. Later you go back again. Only two more.’

  ‘Two more?’ Hart’s face must have reflected his anxiety.

  ‘Is okay. Only one in twenty times they check trunk. You have one in twenty chance each time.’

  Hart was good at mathematics. There was actually a six in twenty chance that the boot would be checked. And maybe the ‘other’ man would be on duty then? Maybe they would not get away so easily? But what alternative did he have? He had entered this whole thing with his eyes open, and now he was risking Elwand’s life as well as his own. And for what? A bloody Copper Scroll. One man had already died, and his son lay injured. Hart did not feel so good about himself all of a sudden. And the underlying thought of Nalan contacting Hassif without involving him didn’t make things any better. Like Amira said, he was all heart and no head. Well. Too late to change things now. He was launched.

  It was still dark when they reached the base of the hill called Solomon’s Prison. As Elwand had explained, they had needed to pass through two more checkpoints. Lying in the boot of the car, Hart had been comforted to hear the sound of numerous other vehicles on the road. It was clear that there was a great deal of early-morning traffic near the checkpoints – market traffic, or trucks heading for the border, he supposed – and that for this reason alone less attention might be paid to a solitary car. For the past twenty minutes, however, Hart had heard no vehicles passing, which led him to assume that they had turned off the main road onto a smaller highway.

  Elwand opened the boot and Hart made his third exit of the morning. He was gradually getting used to the enclosed space, and had even managed to snatch a little extra sleep. Now he squinted up at the outline of the hill ahead of him. It towered up from the plain in the shape of a perfect volcano. But there was something ominous about it. Perhaps it was the association with men being lowered down there and then left to rot? The place had a deadening feel to it, with the plain around it flattened and uncompromising, like the surface of the moon.

  Elwand reached into the boot and dragged out the rope. ‘This heavy. I need help to carry.’

  The two men slung the rope between them and started up the slope. Very soon Hart was sweating. Each step he took meant a concordant amount of descent inside the volcano’s shell. Hart had climbed a little as a young man, but vertigo and fear of heights had limited what he had been able to achieve. As with the mild claustrophobia he had experienced in the car boot, he could master his vertigo with discipline and lateral thinking, but the process was an awkward one. The very thought of dropping straight down eight hundred feet, held only by a thin rope and a stranger’s hands, was nightmarish in the extreme.

  They reached the lip of the volcano and Hart dropped to his knees and crawled to the edge. Elwand, he noticed, had no such reservations. He simply strode to the lip, bent forwards, and stared down.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Hart.

  ‘It is far, no?’ said Elwand.

  ‘Are you sure there’s enough rope?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ Hart cast an appalled look at Elwand.

  Elwand laughed. ‘I joke only. Yes, I am sure. There is maybe ten metres excess. Easily enough. I use rope from market. Very strong. Strong to tie things.’

  ‘But I weigh ninety kilos.’<
br />
  ‘Ninety kilos is nothing. This rope will hold one hundred and fifty easy.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Not sure. Only think. Nothing is sure in this world.’ Elwand moved to his left until he reached a hole in the rock. He reached across, tied a stone onto the end of the rope, clambered onto the top of the rock and started swinging the rope with the stone attached towards the mouth of the hole. ‘When stone come through, you catch.’

  ‘I can’t fit through that hole.’

  ‘Not fit, no. When you are tied, you climb over, like me. But rock is important to me for putting my legs. Otherwise I will not hold you. I will drop.’

  ‘Christ Jesus,’ Hart said again. He caught the stone on Elwand’s fifth try.

  Elwand unhitched the stone and tied the free end of the rope around his waist. Then he began to unloop the rest of the rope until he found the opposite end. ‘You tie this on yourself. Use good strong knot. It break, you fall. Then you climb over rock. I draw back rope to near your end. Let you down slowly. You see? I bring gloves in case you slip.’

  Hart didn’t dare trust his voice. He simply went through the motions. There was no going back now. It must be like a man on his first parachute attempt, he thought. With people lining up behind you, you simply had to go. There was no possibility of unclipping. No possible turning back.

  ‘Here. Torch. Later, you have daylight.’

  ‘What do you mean, daylight?’

  ‘You loose rope when you are down. I pull up. Later, maybe twenty minutes, I come back with food and water in basket. I send this down too. Then I go and hide rope.’

  ‘You go?’

  ‘Yes. I come back tonight. It is too dangerous to do this by daylight. People come. They walk up hill. But if anyone come here they will not look down. It is impossible to see in completely unless you are right above. In a balloon. Or plane maybe. Or helicopter. This will not happen. Only a fool climbs to lip and leans out.’