Jobert smiled and ordered two coffees from the waiter, while Philip continued to leaf through the book that his father had written when Philip was little more than a boy. Jobert passed over one of the cups and took a sip of his own.
‘Dr Garrett,’ he began, ‘we have learned from our sources in the Foreign Legion that your father . . .’ Philip suddenly looked up, an intent, anxious expression on his face. ‘It may be nothing more than a rumour, you understand, but . . . well, it seems that your father is still alive and has been seen at the oasis of El Khuf, near the border with Chad.’
Philip dropped his gaze and pretended to look at the book again, then he spoke. ‘Colonel, I am truly grateful to you for this gift, but, you see, it’s not the first time that someone has claimed to have seen my father alive. I’ve left my work at least three times to go off searching for him in the most unlikely places, but I’ve always returned home empty-handed. You will forgive me, then, if I do not jump for joy at your news.’
‘I can understand your disappointment,’ replied Jobert, ‘but, believe me, this time is different. It is highly probable that, this time, the rumour is true. The high command of the Legion is convinced of it, and it is precisely for this reason that I have asked to meet you and that I myself am about to depart for the Sahara.’
‘To look for my father?’
Jobert ordered another coffee and lit up a cigar. ‘Not only that. You see, Garrett, there are details that you are certainly . . . unfamiliar with, events regarding your father that you are unaware of. I can tell you about what happened ten years ago, when your father suddenly disappeared in such a remote and solitary corner of the desert. But I’ve also come to tell you that I need your help.’
‘I don’t see what I can do. It seems that you know so much more than I do.’
Jobert took a sip of coffee and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘One month ago you published a very interesting study in which you demonstrated that a number of expeditions attempting to enter the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara vanished abruptly, without leaving any trace. Entire armies of tens of thousands of men even—’
‘I’ve done nothing more than develop a thesis outlined by my father many years ago but never published.’
‘Yes, so you say in the preface to your work, which I haven’t had the pleasure of finishing unfortunately.’
‘Well, five centuries before the birth of Christ, a huge army led by the Persian emperor Cambyses that was heading for Ethiopia disappeared. The emperor survived, along with very few others, but what had happened to the rest was never revealed. It was said that the survivors devoured one another, that many went insane and that the sovereign himself died some time later in the throes of madness. Another army, led by the pharaoh Soshenk, had been wiped out in the same area five hundred years earlier. Not a single survivor. But, as I’m sure you realize, Colonel, we are dealing with a very hostile environment. The area is completely devoid of water, swept by scorching winds, sandstorms. It’s not entirely surprising that—’
Jobert interrupted. ‘Dr Garrett, the same phenomenon has repeated itself quite recently, in the absence of adverse weather conditions. The units were modern, well organized and equipped. One of them was a British contingent which had received French authorization to cross the area. The entire unit vanished without trace, swallowed up into the desert. A caravan of slave traders travelling from Sudan with expert Ashanti guides suffered the same fate. And no sandstorms were reported at the time. What we are asking you to do is to incorporate certain facts that we will provide you with into your research and, even more importantly, to pick up your father’s trail from when he was last known to be in Europe. Specifically, Italy.’
‘Why Italy? My father travelled everywhere: Aleppo, Tangiers, Istanbul.’
‘True. But there is a reason. Ten years ago, your father had been carrying out research at the oasis of Siwa when he left suddenly for Italy. He apparently spent some time there before returning to Africa. He was in Rome for two weeks and then went to Naples, from where he left Europe, heading for Oran. From this point on, we actually know a great deal about what happened to him before his disappearance and are willing to share these details with you. What we don’t know is what he was doing in Rome and Naples: what he was looking for, whom he contacted. We believe that his time in Italy holds the key to what happened to him later.’
Philip shook his head doubtfully. ‘I find it very hard to believe, Colonel, that my father has been alive all this time and has never tried to contact me.’
‘Perhaps he hasn’t been able to do so. Perhaps he’s been prevented from contacting anyone. You know that anything can happen in such desolate places, Dr Garrett. You see, I’m firmly convinced that, after this little talk of ours, you will wind up any unfinished business you have here and leave as soon as you can for Italy, but before you do, there are some things you still need to know about your father’s last journey.’
Philip frowned. ‘Colonel, I imagine you must know how many times I’ve tried to obtain reliable information regarding my father’s last days in Africa, from the Foreign Legion, from the War Office and from the Colonial Office. You must also know that all my efforts have come to nothing. My own search for him failed, thanks to a total lack of cooperation from the military authorities, and now all of a sudden here you are, asking to meet me, telling me you have all sorts of information to give me and expecting me to set to work as if nothing had ever happened, as if we’d always enjoyed the most cordial of relations—’
‘Please allow me to interrupt,’ said Jobert, ‘and to be frank with you. I completely understand how you feel, but, my dear Dr Garrett, you are anything but naïve. If we were unable to give you information in the past, there was most certainly a good reason. And if you had got the information you wanted, what might your reaction have been? What would you have done next? We were in no position to control that.’
‘I understand,’ Philip said, nodding. ‘And now you’re in trouble because you just can’t explain what’s going on in that cursed south-eastern quadrant. That must mean that the government, or one of her foreign allies, has plans for that area and needs to clear the field of any sort of obstacle. At this point you feel I might be useful and you want to exchange information for collaboration. I’m sorry, Jobert. It’s too late. If my father is truly alive – and I’m sincerely grateful to you for this information – I’m certain he’ll contact me sooner or later. If he does not, it means that he has very serious reasons for not doing so and I have no choice but to respect his wishes.’
Philip picked up his bag and turned to go. Jobert’s features twitched in frustration and he raised a hand.
‘Please, Dr Garrett, sit down and listen to what I have to tell you. Afterwards, you can make your decision, and I promise to respect it, whatever it might be. But first listen to me, for God’s sake. It is your father we’re talking about, isn’t it?’
Philip sat down again. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll listen, but I’m not promising anything.’
Jobert began his story. ‘I was a captain in the Foreign Legion, stationed at the fort of Suk el Gharb, when I first met your father. My commander had spoken to me about this American anthropologist who was carrying out research in the south-eastern quadrant and had asked for our help. He also told me that Garrett had neglected to inform him of the true purpose of his expedition, or rather that the explanations he had provided were not very convincing.
‘I was asked to organize things so that we could keep an eye on Garrett, unobtrusively but attentively. The Legion has always been responsible for the Saharan territories, and, given his renown, your father’s explorations were certainly of interest to us. I was in charge of the entire Suk el Gharb fort then and could not see to the matter personally, so I assigned one of my men, a Lieutenant Selznick, to discreetly learn what your father was doing and to keep me informed. He volunteered for the job himself, saying that he’d already worked with Garrett in the past and was familiar with
his research.
‘Now, as you know, the Legion has a tradition of accepting anyone among its ranks, without asking questions about their past. Many of our men have chosen this way to escape the rule of law in their countries of origin. They see the harsh, dangerous life of the Legion as a good alternative to rotting away in a prison cell somewhere. They find new dignity under our banner, they rediscover endurance and discipline, solidarity with their comrades . . .’
Jobert immediately picked up on Philip’s impatience. ‘What I mean to say is that we don’t ask about the past when we’re hiring soldiers, but that’s not the case with officers. All of our officers are French and their lives, their backgrounds, hold no secrets for the Legion. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case with Selznick. We had been led to believe that he was a naturalized Frenchman, born in eastern Europe, but he succeeded in hiding his true identity from us. We have learned since then that a man named Selznick was stabbed and killed many years before in a bar-room brawl in Tangiers, and that someone stole his documents and assumed his identity. A marked physical resemblance to the deceased man helped him to carry it off. We have still not managed to learn the true identity of the man we knew as Selznick, but we have well-founded suspicions that he is, in reality, a highly intelligent and frighteningly ferocious criminal . . . a ruthless man who, during the Great War, carried out a number of missions for various governments, missions that required enormous courage, an absolute lack of scruples and the capacity to strike out at anyone in any way, by any means.’
Jobert paused and swallowed hard as he noticed the pallor of Philip’s face.
‘For ours as well?’ asked Philip.
‘Pardon me?’
‘You understand me perfectly well, Jobert. You’re saying that that man did our government’s dirty work during the war, aren’t you?’ Jobert’s embarrassed silence seemed an eloquent answer. ‘So, in other words, you put a bloodthirsty monster on my father’s tail as his guardian angel—’
Jobert interrupted again. ‘Let me finish before you judge me, Dr Garrett, please. You have to understand the context we’re working in, the forces to be reckoned with, the pawns to be moved. This is a very big game. We have to play the game, but most of all we have to win.
‘At first Selznick was diligent in reporting your father’s movements. I learned that Dr Garrett was following a very ancient trail, marked by recurring rock carvings which portrayed . . . a scorpion, I believe. It seems that he had succeeded in discovering something – what, I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. That was when he disappeared. And so did Selznick, along with several men from his unit. The others were found murdered. One survived to tell us what I’ve just told you. He reported that some of the men refused to follow Selznick. A gunfight broke out, and apparently there was a duel, a sword duel between him and your father, in which Selznick was wounded. We have been searching for him ever since. He is wanted for desertion and homicide. When we find him, he will suffer the fate of all traitors. He will be shot in the back.
‘So, what I’m offering you is the chance to find your father. In exchange we need your help in order to achieve two enormously important objectives. The first is to lay our hands on Selznick, as there’s much he still has to tell us. The second is to establish exactly what is happening in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara and to find out if these events are connected with your father’s studies. Do you accept?’
Philip took a deep breath. ‘You see, Jobert, there’s something that doesn’t make sense in all this. The gap between what you expect from me and what I can effectively give you. As far as finding my father is concerned, you have much more information, greater means and a far better knowledge of the territory than I could ever hope to have. And thus a much greater chance of success.’
Jobert pointed his well-manicured hand at Desmond Garrett’s book, which was still on the table. ‘Dr Garrett, there’s one more thing you must know. We believe that this book contains a coded message for you. We discovered it quite by chance. It was in a post office in North Africa that had been destroyed by a sandstorm some seven years ago. It was addressed to you, although you obviously never received it. We have been going through it for months in vain. There are several phrases written in pen at the start of some of the chapters. We imagine that they must have a precise meaning, meant for you, and that only you can decipher them. That’s why your role in this matter is absolutely essential. I will be leaving for Africa in two days, going straight to the place this book was posted from. I need your answer now.’
Philip leafed through the book with much greater attention than he had a few moments before, pausing to read the added phrases. It was, without doubt, his father’s handwriting, although what was written didn’t seem to make much sense, at least not at first glance. He looked up and stared firmly into Colonel Jobert’s eyes. ‘I accept,’ he said. ‘I will leave for Italy as soon as possible and I will carry out my own investigation, but that doesn’t mean that our paths will ever cross again.’
PHILIP GARRETT caught a train to Rome one hot, hazy day in late September. He found a seat, took out his notebook and began for the hundredth time to copy out the handwritten phrases. The first was at the beginning of the opening chapter and was in Latin: ‘Romae sacerdos tibi petendus contubernalis meus ad templum Dianae.’
After having considered the various possible translations, he thought the most likely was: ‘Look in Rome for the priest who lived with me at the Temple of Diana.’ He knew that whenever his father visited Rome, he used to stay in a pensione on the Via Aventino, near the ancient Temple of Diana. The message was clear to him, although it would be incomprehensible to anyone else.
As soon as Philip arrived at the station he took a cab to the pensione on Via Aventino where his father had most likely stayed when he’d come to Rome ten years earlier. Luckily, the little hotel was still run by the same person, Rina Castelli, a robust, jovial woman who loved to chatter. As she bustled around, preparing the room, Philip asked her a few questions about his father. Oh, she remembered him well: such a good-looking man, no more than fifty, refined and elegant, but he kept mostly to himself, she recalled, always immersed in those books of his.
‘Do you remember if there was anyone who came to see him regularly, someone you knew?’
The woman placed the fresh towels and lavender soap she was carrying on an oak chest. ‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked, and at Philip’s nod she called out to the maid from the doorway, then sat down next to a little table, her hands in her lap.
‘Did he see anyone here? Well . . .’ she continued, slightly embarrassed, ‘your father was a good-looking man, as I was saying, very elegant, quite a hit with the ladies . . . And, you know, back then most people were quite badly off. Not that things are much better now but, believe me, life was tough then. The Great War had just finished. There was no work to be had, no bread. A man like your father . . . he was a good catch. And a widower to boot.’
Philip raised his hand to interrupt her. ‘No, that’s not the kind of encounter I’m wondering about, signora. I was thinking of someone who may have struck you as peculiar, caught your attention. Someone who may have had something to do with his work.’
The maid entered with the coffee and Signora Castelli poured a cup for her guest, who sat down beside her.
‘Someone a little out of the ordinary, you’re saying. Well, now that I think about it, I do remember him meeting several times with a priest, a Jesuit. I think his name was Antonini or Antonelli . . . Yes, that’s right. His name was Father Antonelli.’
Philip was startled. ‘Do you know if he’s still alive? If he lives here in Rome?’
The woman took a sip of coffee and gave a voluptuous little lick of her lips. ‘Still alive? Goodness, I would imagine so – he wasn’t very old – but I have no idea where he might be now. You know how it is with men of the cloth. When their superiors give an order, they have to jump. As soon as they get settled in, they are transferred somewhere else. Who knows
? He may even have gone abroad as a missionary . . .’
‘Are you sure he was a Jesuit? That could be a very important starting point.’
The woman nodded. ‘Yes, sir, he was a Jesuit all right.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Only a Jesuit could let his trousers show under his robes in Rome in the 1920s. Any other priest would have worn knickerbockers, so only his stockings showed, like a woman’s. Believe me, there’s nothing I don’t know about trousers.’
Philip couldn’t hold back a smile. He finished his coffee and then said, ‘Signora, you don’t remember this Father Antonelli’s first name, do you? If I knew his first and last names, perhaps the order could locate him and I could arrange a meeting.’
‘His first name . . . no, I don’t remember it. Wait, wait, I know. Maybe I can help you. I’m a person who likes to keep my things in order. I never throw anything away. I remember that he stayed here at the hotel one night, because he was working or studying, I’m not sure which, with your father. I’m sure I must have had him sign the register, for the police. I certainly don’t have the time to go through them all myself, but the old registers are still in my office. If you have the patience to look through them, I’m sure you’ll find him. It must have been 1920 or 1921, if I’m not mistaken, in September or October. It was the early autumn, like now. All you need is a bit of patience.’
Philip thanked her and followed her down to her office on the ground floor, a small room with curtains at the windows and a bunch of daisies in a vase on top of a wooden column.
‘Here,’ she said, opening a cupboard. ‘They’re all here. Take your time.’
Philip sat at a little table and began to take out the guest books, big registers with stiff marbled covers tied with a black ribbon. He began to leaf through them one by one, until he saw, his heart quickening, his father’s signature.
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