‘I’ll be going, then, Professor Husseini. Thank you for the coffee.’
‘It was a pleasure, Selim. Continue to keep me informed about what’s going on with Olsen.’
Husseini saw him to the door and waited until Selim’s car disappeared down the street before going back in. He sat in his silent apartment and felt oppressed by his solitude. There was nothing in his life that could arouse any feeling or emotion. He didn’t even care about his academic career any more. There was just one thing that held any interest for him: the possibility of reading the complete Breasted papyrus.
His mobile phone rang. Husseini looked at the clock and did not move. The phone continued to ring and ring, filling him with a sense of dread. Finally he picked it up with a mechanical gesture.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Good evening, Professor Husseini,’ said a voice. ‘Please consult your email. There’s a message for you.’
Husseini hung up without responding and sat there unmoving. When he finally went to the computer, he realized that nearly an hour had passed.
He connected to the Internet and opened his email messages. There it was: 3 x 3 = 9
He switched off the computer and sat on the floor, lighting up a cigarette. All three of the commando units had arrived. They were on American soil and ready to proceed.
The phone rang again at midnight as he was getting ready for bed.
‘Husseini,’ he answered.
‘Professor Husseini,’ said a metallic voice on the other end, ‘Los Angeles and New York are the most beautiful cities in America, but you’re better off staying in Chicago to meet your friends. You know the addresses.’ The voice was perfect, without any hint of an accent, sterile.
So these were their final objectives: the choices had been made. And now they wanted Abu Ghaj to enter the field. But Abu Ghaj was dead. And had been, for a long time.
And if he wasn’t dead, maybe it was better to kill him. Abu Ghaj couldn’t rise from the past to determine the life or death of millions of people who had never done anything wrong, just because he had received an order.
He turned off all the lights and lay awake thinking. He hadn’t expected everything to move with such stop-watch precision. He hadn’t imagined that Abu Ahmid’s plan would grind forward like a perfect war machine. But he knew Abu Ahmid well and an atrocious suspicion struck him. When he was sure that the weapons were in place and ready to go, would he stop at merely using them as a threat? After Jerusalem was in his hands, would he not be tempted to deal the final blow to his hated enemy?
Husseini thought of how he could kill himself. He could see the suicide scene perfectly in the darkness: the police would come in tomorrow, take measurements, check for prints. He saw himself lying in a pool of blood (a gunshot?) or dangling from the ceiling by his trouser belt.
He pictured William Blake searching through a Pharaoh’s tomb absurdly dug into the rock in Israel, of all places. Blake had no one there to help him. He was being held captive by strangers and prevented from acting on his own. Husseini realized that even if he did kill himself, the machine might slow down but would not stop, and that William Blake would remain alone in that tomb.
He thought of the cruelty that Abu Ahmid was capable of and a shudder of terror ran down his spine. Scenes from the past that he thought he had long buried came back to him vividly: the traitors who fallen into his hands, tortured slowly for days to squeeze the very last drop of pain from their tormented bodies. He knew that if he betrayed the cause or refused to carry out his orders, Abu Ahmid would devise an even more atrocious punishment for him. He would find a way to keep him alive for weeks, for months, maybe for years. Dragging out an endless hell devised especially for him.
Who could disobey such a man?
He decided that he would play his part but that he would also prepare an escape route for himself: suicide. He looked up a phone number in his book and, seeing that it wasn’t too late, called his doctor and made an appointment for six the next evening. That was done, at least.
He sat down at the computer and sent his response by email. It said: DR115.S14.1.23. In the code that had been devised for the commando units, the message meant that he would meet one of them at the south 115th exit of the Dan Ryan Expressway on 14 January at 11 p.m. or 2300 hours. So, the next day he would find himself face to face with one of the horsemen of the apocalypse.
He felt deadly tired but he knew that if he lay down again he wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was no longer the smallest space in his brain that was free from nightmares.
He turned on the TV and the breaking-news logo filled the screen. The speaker’s voice announced that Iraqi president, al Bashar, had been the victim of an assassination attempt at 5.10 p.m., 13 January, as he had been watching a military parade in front of the walls of Babylon.
The CNN coverage showed scenes of total confusion: thousands rushing to escape from the stands which had been set up on either side of the route; the soldiers who had been parading shooting wildly as if under attack from an invisible enemy; enormous Soviet-built tanks that clattered horribly as they reversed, turning their turrets as if aiming at an aggressor who would not enter into their sights.
There were flashing lights everywhere, ambulances and police cars. And at the centre of the platform, under a canopy bright with national slogans and symbols, a pool of blood. The footage included shots of a stretcher being transported towards a helicopter which dropped down in the centre of the street and immediately took off again. The lens on another camera followed the flight of the helicopter over the gilded domes and minarets of the mosques of Baghdad.
The speaker reported that, according to a national press release, President al Bahsar had been admitted to hospital in a critical condition but surgeons were hopeful that his life could be saved. Doubts were immediately expressed regarding the credibility of this report. Eyewitnesses had seen the flash of the bomb very close to the President and had watched as medical personnel gathered pieces of his body, which had been blown to bits by the explosion. The most probable hypothesis was a suicide bomber from the opposition, who had adopted the techniques of Hamas commandos. It was impossible that a bomb had been planted on the platform beforehand, since it had been thoroughly checked by security forces minutes before the ceremony.
Husseini lowered his head as an ad came on and he wondered just who could be behind the assassination of such a key figure at such a critical moment for the Middle East.
When the news started again, the cameras were framing a high-ranking officer wearing a tanker’s cap, encircled by his guards. His left shoulder was bandaged and bloodstained, and he was barking out orders. General Taksoun, already filling the power void left by al Bashar. A man who could count on the esteem and loyalty of the army’s elite troops and who had a certain reputation abroad as well.
Husseini considered the hard, decisive expression of the general, his sharp, rehearsed gestures. It looked as though he had been preparing for this moment for a long time. Perhaps American intelligence was behind the bombing. The Americans saw General Taksoun as someone who could be negotiated with.
The telephone rang and Husseini picked up the receiver.
‘It was us, Professor Husseini,’ said a metallic voice.
7
SARAH FORRESTALL took the ATV to the top of a hill overlooking the camp, turned off the engine and coasted in neutral almost all the way to the parking lot. She got out and pushed it to its spot next to the other vehicles; catching her breath, she surveyed the area. Everything was quiet and peaceful and the trailers could be made out in the dark, thanks to the crescent moon that illuminated the chalky dust of the parking lot. Suddenly she saw a light flashing on one of the hills that framed the camp to the west and ducked behind a truck. She could now hear the sound of the Jeep that Maddox had used to leave the camp.
The vehicle came to a stop near her hiding place. Maddox got out and exchanged a few words with the men who were with him. They were wearin
g fatigues and carrying automatic weapons.
She strained to hear as they continued to talk in low voices. She then saw the soldiers get back into the Jeep and drive south, while Maddox headed for his lodging. She waited a little longer until he was inside and then slipped towards her own trailer. She slid the key into the lock and opened the door, but just as she was about to step in an arm blocked her way.
‘William,’ she gasped, startled. ‘You scared me.’
‘And you had me scared.’ Blake retorted. ‘What were you trying to do out there in the desert in the middle of the night? Is this any time to be getting back?’
‘First, let’s go inside,’ the girl replied. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be standing around out here, making small talk at two in the morning.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Blake, as they went in.
The girl lit the gas lantern, set it to low and pulled down the window blinds.
‘But I do think you owe me an explanation,’ Blake went on.
‘Why?’ Sarah asked.
‘Because I’ve fallen in love with you and you know it. You led me to believe that you felt something for me as well, but then you run off and leave me here like an idiot. You refuse to help me in any way, although you know how desperate I am. I think you know what I’m driving at.’
Sarah turned towards him and Blake could tell that his words had had an effect. ‘Yeah, I think I do know what you’re driving at, but you’re wrong. I risked my neck to get the information you wanted. It’s not my fault that it wasn’t there.’
‘Not your fault?’ asked Blake. ‘I copied your master and examined it on my computer. The coordinates are all there and they refer to a place in the Negev desert in Israel. We are roughly forty miles south of Mitzpe Ramon, about fifteen miles west of the Egyptian border. And you knew it. Plus, I’d really like to know what you were up to, driving around in the ATV at this hour. I assume you were following Maddox and his men, but why and for whom?’
Sarah leaned back into a chair, letting out a long sigh. ‘Then you really do love me,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Well, for starters, I don’t know who the hell you are, what the hell you’re up to in this place or even who you’re in cahoots with.’
‘What’s that to you anyway?’ the girl asked. She got up and moved towards him, allowing him just enough time to sense the heady mix of her perfume and her perspiration before she kissed him boldly, pressing her body against his.
Blake felt a burst of heat rising from his chest, fogging his brain. He had forgotten how violent desire could be, how overwhelming the fragrance rising from a beautiful woman’s breasts.
He tried to keep his head. ‘Sarah, why did you lie to me?’ he asked, pulling away slightly from her embrace but continuing to look her in the eye.
The atmosphere in the trailer was sticky: the room around them seemed to be shrinking, as if the walls were closing in on them, forcing them into an increasingly cramped space that was saturated with their feelings and desire.
Right there in front of him Sarah pulled off her shirt and dusty jeans, announcing, ‘I’m going to take a shower. Please don’t go anywhere.’
Blake waited alone in the middle of the small space crammed with papers, books and clothes hanging in plastic bags. He just stood there, listening to the splatter of the water in the foggy shower cubical and the increasingly powerful beating of his heart. He felt himself trembling inside, thinking about when the rush of water would suddenly come to a halt. It had been six months since he had made love with Judy. A lifetime. And Judy was still a part of him: the colour of her eyes, the perfume of her hair and her graceful way of moving.
He tried to turn his thoughts to the tomb in the heart of the desert on the other side of the sphinx-like mountain and the pyramid mountain, to the mystery of the Pharaoh buried so incredibly far from the Valley of the Kings. The place where nature and destiny had conspired to create the most majestic architecture of the Nile Valley. And yet, at the same time, the savage beating of his heart obliterated all thought; the voice of that man buried by the millennia and oblivion in a godforsaken spot in the most arid of deserts could not compete with the compelling power of the force calling to him from the other side of the steamy curtain.
And suddenly, there she was, standing naked before him; only then did he realize that the thundering of the water had ceased.
Water dripping from her hands, she slowly took his clothes off, caressing his body and face as if finally taking possession of a long-desired territory.
Blake carried her to the bed and took her into his arms in a fever of desire, caressing her with incredulous passion. His kisses grew increasingly ardent, liberating his soul of its painful memories, as she enveloped him with intense, all-encompassing, hungry sensuality. As he raised his glance from her body to look into her eyes, he found her transfigured by pleasure, becoming more beautiful than ever, radiant with a mysterious splendour, a soft, faint light.
He continued contemplating her after she had surrendered herself to exhaustion, her entire body limp in the lassitude that precedes sleep. He suddenly shook off his languor, as if returning from a dream.
‘Will you answer me now?’ he said. ‘Please.’
Sarah looked into his eyes as she sat up in front of him, taking his hand. ‘Not yet, Will,’ she said, ‘and not here.’
PROFESSOR HUSSEINI switched off all the lights in the house, turned on his answering machine and slipped a little black box into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He left the house and began walking down the pavement to where his car was parked. He ran into a colleague, Dr Sheridan, a professor of Accadian studies, who was out walking his dog, greeting him with a slight nod of the head. Husseini was convinced that the man would be wondering where he was going at that hour in such cold weather and would no doubt have come up with a salacious but presumably innocent explanation.
He started the engine and drove off, passing the spires of the university buildings capped with snow and, further in the distance, the chapel tower. The view was both enchanting and spectral at the same time and he had never lost his wonder at it, remembering the first time he set foot in the chapel and how it was barren of any sign or token that might have revealed a
particular religious faith. It could have even been a mosque. ‘This is America,’ he had thought. ‘They couldn’t decide on a single faith, so they chose no faith at all.’
Before long he was pulling onto the wide boulevard that flanked the little lake on the old World’s Fair grounds, shimmering under the street lights that cast a greenish halo across the ice. A few minutes later he was getting on the almost deserted Dan Ryan, taking the overpass that headed south.
He passed a police car lazily patrolling the expressway and could make out the corpulent body of the black officer behind the wheel. He followed an oil tanker gleaming with chrome and brightly coloured lights as far as the 111th exit, where he got into the right-hand lane. A little further on, he noticed an old Pontiac station wagon with Indiana plates proceeding at a steady speed of forty miles per hour. He thought it might be his contact.
He saw him turn off at 115th street at five to eleven and pull into the parking lot of a liquor store; now he was sure.
He took a deep breath and pulled over, leaving his parking lights on. A man got out of his car and just stood immobile for several seconds in the middle of the deserted parking lot. He was wearing jeans, running shoes and a jacket with the collar turned up. He had a Chicago Bulls cap on. It seemed to him that the youth was looking his way, as if he wanted to make sure he had sized things up correctly. Next he saw him lower something over his face, a ski mask. He approached Hussein’s car with quick, light steps, opened the door and got in.
‘Salaam Alekum, Abu Ghaj,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I’m the number one man of group two and I bring you greetings from Abu Ahmid. Please excuse me covering my face, but it’s a safety measure tha
t we all have to comply with. Only Abu Ahmid has ever seen our faces and is capable of identifying us.’
This was the metallic voice he had heard over the telephone. Husseini looked at him: he had the demeanour, the voice and the posture of a young man, perhaps between twenty-five and thirty years old, a sturdy build and long, powerful hands. Husseini had observed his movements as he was approaching the car and opening the door: loose, almost fluid, confident yet careful, and those eyes, gleaming from the depths of the ski mask, seemed indifferent, but were actually very intent upon checking out the surrounding area. This man was obviously an extremely efficient precision fighting machine.
‘It’s an honour,’ he said, ‘to work under the direction of the great Abu Ghaj. Your actions are still a source of inspiration throughout the Islamic world. You’re a genuine role model for anyone fighting in the jihad.’
Husseini didn’t answer, waiting for the man to continue.
‘Our operation is about to be completed. The three donkeys bought at the market in Samarkand are about to reach their destination. One of the three was on the truck ahead of you on the expressway, remember it?’
‘I do,’ Husseini confirmed.
‘Listen now, Abu Ghaj,’ said the man. ‘Group one will reach its destination in two days, group three the day after that, and group two . . . is already in position. The three donkeys can be saddled at any time.’
Husseini realized that his fears were falling into place. ‘Saddling the donkeys’ was evidently a coded expression for assembling the bombs. Presumably such language was thought necessary even in private conversation in case a bug had been planted in his car. Or was it just another florid expression of the rich Arabic language?
‘Abu Ahmid says you are to forward the message as soon as the final donkey is put into its stall.’
‘Three days in all,’ Husseini thought. The situation was coming to a head with unstoppable momentum. The megalomania of Abu Ahmid was about to reach unprecedented new heights. And yet Husseini still couldn’t understand why Abu Ahmid had chosen him and, more significantly, how he could be so certain that Husseini would carry out everything he was asked to do. He lowered the window and turned towards the young man seated next to him. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked him, reaching for a packet of cigarettes.
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