The adrenalin raced in Hugo’s veins. Was Denning a friend or an enemy? He fingered the empty, useless gun, knowing that he had no protection but not really caring either way. She was dead. His life – their life – had ended. What did it matter if Denning turned out to be another Ibrahim?
‘There were globes with winged serpents inside them,’ he was explaining. ‘Each night the dream repeated itself but never advanced, always concluding as a globe floated towards me. Then, finally, the visions were extended.’
‘I don’t understand – ’ Hugo was becoming agitated.
‘Please bear with me. We saw you in the globe – my son Garry and I.’
‘Me?’
‘And a woman and a boy. Then we saw you without the woman, on an island, but with the boy. Gradually, each night, your story unfolded. We saw you begin the journey, and we also saw other journeys you had made in other lives. We listened to your son read from his journal and we began to understand.’
Is this a trap, wondered Hugo. He couldn’t possibly afford to run the risk of coming clean. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ he said lamely.
‘You must trust me, Mr Fitzroy,’ said Denning with a spurt of anger. ‘I know why you’re here – and I know how little time we have. At 7.03. Sunrise, isn’t it?’
Hugo froze.
‘This is not some kind of trap,’ Denning insisted.
‘What is it then?’
‘A solution. At least I can promise you that.’
‘Go on.’
‘I came here two years ago as a senior chemist in charge of an anti-germ-warfare programme. We wanted an antidote to some lethal gas Saddam Hussein was using against the Marsh Arabs. I was known as a convert to Muslim fundamentalism but I am also a leader in my scientific field so it wasn’t long before I was approached by an Egyptian security officer who told me the Iraqis were making a new kind of nerve gas – and that the sample I was examining was far less potent than the level they were going to achieve. I was scared out of my mind because the sample I had already received was absolutely deadly. By now I was dream-watching your journey, understanding the Atlanteans’ desperation, and gradually I began to realize that our spiritual journey was running parallel to yours and that I had a role to play in their release. I knew that my spell of duty was coming to an end and realized that I would be replaced by someone who might be prepared to reverse the role of our operation – to make the gas rather than to analyse the stuff. What’s more, I now knew that the formula for the even more lethal variety was about to be released. I therefore decided to make it clear to my intelligence contact that I was an anti-Semite, a far more fanatical fundamentalist than they had expected. Over a period of weeks I was successful in convincing the joint Arab investors in this project that I was the man for the job. The first formula was bad enough, but when I assessed the second I realized that it would achieve carnage on a scale and of a description never seen before.’
I’ve got to trust him, thought Hugo, whatever the risks. But how had he managed to see so much, and who had inspired his visions? Could the Atlanteans have a moral code after all? Had they planted Denning as a longstop, or was he merely another member of the new Brotherhood? And, above all, who was this son whom he had shared his visions with? Were they light walkers too? The main point, however, was that time was running out and he knew that he could do nothing on his own.
‘Have you had other experiences?’ Hugo probed, determined to understand everything despite the deadline. He could almost see the sand in the hour-glass running out and could hardly contain his impatience.
‘Yes. I remember seeing a car that was later to injure my sister, and I witnessed my mother’s death in a plane accident some days before it happened. Somewhere in my mind I watched a tidal wave build up; two days later it hit the shore in Florida. I expect I had lots of smaller, less significant experiences, but those were the big ones. Until now.’
‘So the Atlanteans are hedging their god-damn bets,’ said Hugo bitterly. ‘Guiding, manipulating, facilitating. But the bottom line is this: if we haven’t got the strength to release them, they seem to think the Iraqis can.’
‘Yes – they seem convinced that they can succeed if you fail, but that’s the bit I know they’ve got wrong.’ Denning was adamant. ‘We both know the time of the change in frequency but we have our very special, separate roles – and strengths. You are the sole survivor of three light walkers, and you alone have the power to assist the change – to release them. But only I can destroy the gas.’
Hugo nodded. ‘What is this formula?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that’
‘It was used before – in Atlantis? All those thousands of years ago?’ He was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something else – ’ Hugo hesitated. ‘Did you know that Philippa was pregnant when she died?’
‘I’m sorry – ‘
‘Impregnated by the gods. And when she died, her child – the thing inside her – it left her. It’s free.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Denning was thrown.
‘Perhaps Philippa has helped to establish a new generation,’ Hugo suggested tentatively.
‘To watch over us?’ Denning sounded sceptical.
‘Maybe they believe mankind is too self-destructive to be left entirely to its own devices.’
‘And yet they provide this lethal gas? It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘The Christian God provided the H-bomb.’
‘He didn’t pass across a formula.’
‘The Atlanteans could have changed their minds – or acquired a shred of morality – or even seen some potential in mankind. Perhaps that’s why they impregnated her.’ Hugo sought for some kind of logic. Could they have seen the possibility of regeneration? Of a new age? Perhaps that was why the Atlanteans had given Denning the knowledge and the power to cancel the formula. ‘Your son,’ continued Hugo. ‘Are you close?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he sharing the visions still?’
‘I think so. But Garry is terminally ill.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s got Aids,’ said Denning hurriedly, angrily. ‘He had a drug habit but did a cold turkey, had therapy – got himself together again. That was some years ago. Then he was diagnosed HIV positive. Garry contracted full-blown Aids this year and he’s dying.’
‘How terrible – ’ But Hugo had had a sudden and shattering idea which he blurted out without thinking of its effect on Denning. ‘Would anyone in Basra make a surprise personal sacrifice?’ he said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I – I’ve been reminding myself of the Islamic terrorists of a few years ago. The men and women who believed so implicitly in their cause that they packed themselves with explosives – and detonated on their target.’
Denning shrugged. ‘There aren’t any fanatics here.’
‘If I didn’t have to go back to the pyramid I’d do it myself. I’d wire myself up and walk into that lab and blow it sky high.’
There was a short silence. Finally Denning took the point.
‘I can’t bear not to be with Garry, to be here in Egypt when he’s so ill in the States. I’m sure you feel the same about Brent.’
Hugo nodded with weary impatience. Brent was dead already. He seemed to have forgotten that. The conversation was clearly going nowhere. He had to leave.
‘Of course I know I shall be reunited with him in death,’ Denning said unexpectedly, walking to the window and looking out on to the alley below. ‘I love these people,’ he muttered. ‘More than I’ve loved anyone – except Garry.’ He turned back to Hugo. ‘Do you believe in being reunited with Brent?’ He swept on without waiting for a reply. ‘Garry has a few weeks to live. A couple of months at the most, so the decision is made.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Hugo. Was he going to go ahead?
‘Perhaps I was in Atlantis once – maybe Garry,
too. I’m a coward, I’m afraid. A terrible coward. But I’m prepared to make the sacrifice although I don’t want to take any of these people with me – but I know that I’ll have to.’
Hugo looked at Christopher Denning with considerable respect. Now there was a possible future.
‘I would have liked to evacuate the people here but it’s impossible,’ he repeated. ‘They’ll be the usual innocent victims.’
Hugo saw Denning’s despair and it deeply moved him. But there was nothing he could say that would in any way alleviate his grim responsibility. ‘The problem is that the Atlanteans could easily replace the formula, and they will if I can’t release them.’
‘You have to release them. But there’s something else,’ said Denning. ‘Something I’m hoping you’ll do for me.’
Hugo nodded.
‘I’m going to ask you to do me a favour, Mr Fitzroy. I want you to go to Boston. No one else can tell Garry why I did what I’m going to do. I mean, it would never be believed – except by a few. Avery few.’
‘My son was put in a psychiatric hospital because he wrote the truth.’
‘I think we both realize that this secret is much better kept than broadcast,’ Denning reminded him gently. ‘Will you take the note to Garry?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘What were you going to do when you release the gods?’
‘If I succeed I was – anyway, it doesn’t matter. I promise I’ll go to him.’ Hugo did not want to tell Denning that he had hoped the gods would take him with them.
As Denning wrote to his son, Hugo watched what was happening in the narrow passageway below. A child played with a cat, an old woman sat on a step, a couple of young boys kicked a football at each other and a girl of about eighteen walked up the alley slowly. She was dressed in bedouin style but had a transistor radio in her hand and was singing along to its thumping beat. She danced a few steps, the old woman waved a fist, the cat ran away, the two boys dropped their football. The sharp moonlight lit them like pale, grey ghosts and then the girl and her transistor hurried on, the booming sound diminishing into the night. The boys casually returned to their game, the old lady to her step and the cat to her playmate. The words of the nursery rhyme flooded into Hugo’s mind.
Boys and girls come out to play,
The moon doth shine as bright as day.
Leave your supper and leave your sleep,
And join your playfellows in the street.
Come with a whoop and come with a call,
Come with a good will or not at all.
But they all came with a good will, didn’t they, thought Hugo. None of them knew what was going to happen; none of them were in charge of their own fate – and soon they were going to be blown to pieces.
Denning gave the note to Hugo, his face grey with fatigue and trepidation. ‘Fill up the jeep with diesel. I shan’t go into the lab until I know you’re clear. I’m afraid the explosion will have to be very substantial to ensure the right level of destruction. There will be a large number of casualties.’
Hugo realized his old detachment had vanished for ever.
‘I’ll need some ammunition,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve no doubt the pyramid will be surrounded with Iraqi troops when I get back.’ He suddenly felt defeated, his sense of purpose gone. ‘I might as well take as many of the bastards out as I can, but how I’m going to get back into that pyramid and – ‘
‘Wait.’ Denning was calm and positive. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Do you really imagine for one moment the Egyptian government would allow any Iraqi presence around that pyramid? There’ll be a few security men, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to put your faith in the gods – as I have to. They’ve guided you before. Surely they’ll do it again in their greatest need.’
‘I promise you I’ll find your son.’ Hugo was ashamed of his outburst now. Was it exhaustion that had made him so spineless, he wondered, or was it a reversion to what he had been. I must have changed, thought Hugo. The gods have guided me.
‘Will you help Garry?’ asked Denning, his agitation showing at last.
‘Yes.’ Hugo put the note in his wallet. ‘You’ve got to trust.’
They embraced, and in the embrace he felt, for the first time in many decades, a trace of self-respect.
As Hugo drove away, Denning stood by the diesel pump, giving a half wave. Then he began to walk slowly and casually away, hands in pockets, taking his last journey to the laboratory. Hugo imagined him strolling amongst his colleagues, his body as lethal as the formula for the gas they were about to prepare. Perhaps, before the device exploded, he would have time to joke with his colleagues, to answer a question, examine a piece of apparatus. Hugo remembered the fragments of human life that he had photographed in the bar in Belfast. Declan’s. Would someone come and photograph the remains in Nazra? Not just the victims in the lab but those, more innocent, sprawled outside in the street, blown to bits. Would the boy in the water survive? Hugo prayed he would. The child had been part of a succession – perhaps would be again. All those lost, deserted children.
He looked at his watch and began to concentrate on what he would have to face. Just after 2 a.m. and he had hours to drive. Suppose he broke down? Suppose they came looking for him? What about an ambush? There were numerous possibilities. Then a new conviction slowly filled him, keeping the creeping panic at bay. He was an Atlantean and so were Philippa and Brent. He was one of the gods.
As he drove back, the sand on the road bleaching out in the headlights below him, Hugo became increasingly oppressed and his elation died. Then the sand-hills began to move and suddenly, without warning, he was in a primeval ocean, at first dun-coloured and then as black as pitch.
‘Can we trust you?’ The words rang above the lashing waves.
‘You know who I am.’
‘We needed three. Two are dead.’
‘Killed by your false friends.’
‘We must leave.’
‘You are responsible for their deaths.’
‘We don’t understand mankind. You seem successful in killing each other and for that reason you have not developed into higher beings. Sometimes you are strong, sometimes so weak. You confuse us. We are concerned only with regeneration.’
‘You should have been concerned with understanding. You understand nothing.’
The voices inside him became silent and Hugo lost his temper, crying aloud, ‘You won’t be watching over anyone, will you? You’re false gods.’
At once, the elements around him intensified, the jeep ran off the road and Hugo slumped at the wheel. In his mind he was on a ship, running before the wind, the masts bare of sail, sweeping through a sea canyon, with lashing spume on either side and stalagmite-like rocks piercing the water. Dark waves thundered on a primeval shoreline where land crabs crawled towards volcanic gullies and Atlantean globes rose in a leprous sky.
Hugo was in the wheel-house, standing beside Brent who was steering the craft through the treacherous channel which gradually grew narrower. Great gobbets of water, rebounding from the craggy shore, hurled themselves over the deck and in the vast swirl he saw dozens of small fish floating, each with a sorrowful eye watching him.
He was conscious of Philippa’s hand in his, of Brent’s voice encouraging him, but she was as cold as death and he could see the bones in his son’s arm.
The dim light at the end of the channel came up slowly and then, suddenly, with surprising speed as the ship cleaved the dark waves, shrugged off the backlash from the rocky shore and steered between the jagged pinnacles. The light became hazy, but as it cleared he saw Tiderace with the pyramid glowing on the cliffs in the sparkling morning sun. Sea birds called and wheeled and, as they surged nearer, he saw the wall of sand on the beach, battling to hold off the tide.
‘You must use the love you lost on the island,’ said the voice in his mind, and Hugo knew more clearly what he had to do when he reached Giza.
The noise of the elements was
cut off instantly, and somewhat dazed by the silence he found himself no longer in the wheel-house of the ship but behind the wheel of the jeep.
The noise of the explosion was slight but he knew from the distant rumbling that Christopher Denning had sacrificed himself and others.
‘You were wrong,’ Hugo shouted to the Atlanteans as the sound spread thin and died away.
‘Yes.’ The answer was almost lost in the scudding breeze. ‘We were wrong.’
12
The Portal
The road was undulating over sand-hills again and the wan moonlight turned every dip into a dark hollow. Hugo was struggling to concentrate on the road, but as he plunged the jeep into yet another fold of the dunes he prayed aloud, not just for the great sacrifice that had been made by Christopher Denning but for all the unsuspecting people he had taken with him. He also prayed that he could have enough faith to make this final journey to the pyramid. He prayed to the Christian God but also directed his prayers to all forms and faces of the deity. Because he was so preoccupied, Hugo only just saw the Mercedes half-way across the road with the nearside tyre punctured. He drew the jeep to a screaming halt just in time to avoid a collision, but when he switched off the ignition the silence seemed to grow into a wall around him.
Hugo clambered out, pausing to survey the limousine. There was no one at the wheel, but surely its owner couldn’t have wandered off into the desert. Then he caught sight of the huddled form on the rear seat.
Slowly he approached, pacing himself, still not able to see properly. He paused, walked a few more steps, staring ahead, poised, ready for an ambush, the revolver in his hand. There was still no sign of life and he moved closer to gaze in at the rear of the Mercedes. For a while he felt unable to make a decision. Then he pulled open the back door with considerable force and dragged away a couple of old and stinking bedouin blankets. Tarik Ibrahim was lying on the seat, a knife in his hand. His eyes were open but his breathing was laboured. Hugo stared at him in horror. Ibrahim’s face was a mask of dried blood, his features black and purple. He looked clownish, ludicrous, but there was a shred of dignity in his eyes.
Hidden Gods Page 17