‘Can you remember what? Come on Jack, this is important.’
‘Something to do with the past. Digging up the past, or something. Digging up the past can ...’ As the medication wore off, the pain returned and Jack’s whole body began to throb. Exhausted, he closed his eye. Ignoring the pain, he tried to recall the man at the top of the stairs. ‘... can make the present ... very ... dangerous. Yeah, that’s it.’ The nurse returned with fresh bandages and began to adjust Jack’s drip.
‘What would he have meant by that?’ Jana asked.
‘I think he was warning me.’
‘Warning you? About what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Newman? The article perhaps?’
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s all related, isn’t it? The car, the brick, now this.’
‘Yep ...’
‘What was he doing upstairs?’
‘Looking for something. He came out of my study. This was no ordinary burglar, that’s for sure. This guy was a pro. He knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘What do you think he was looking for?’
‘Something to do with my work, I’d say. But the strange thing is ...’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t call the ambulance. I was unconscious.’
‘You think he did?’
‘Who else?’ Gasping for air, Jack fell back against the pillow.
‘You never learn, do you?’ Jana said, clenching her fist in frustration. ‘You ignored the signs, now look at yourself!’
‘That’s enough!’ the nurse said curtly. ‘I think it’s best if you go.’ She pushed Jana aside, pulled the curtain around Jack’s bed and began to change his dressing.
8
‘Mr Farim is in reception, shall I show him in?’ asked Horst’s secretary.
‘Has my father arrived?’
‘Yes, he’s waiting in the boardroom with your brother.’
Newman only came into the office on special occasions and left the day-to-day running of the family business to his sons. However, he still insisted on being consulted regarding all major decisions affecting Newmans Colonial Bank. After all, he was the founder. On matters of real importance, he had the final say.
For the past two weeks, Horst had been working on a business venture with great potential. The unique proposal had been put to him recently in London by one of his father’s art dealers.
‘Thank you for coming all this way just to see me, Mr Farim,’ Newman said affably, extending his hand. ‘My son would have told you, I rarely travel these days.’ Abdullah Farim bowed politely and shook hands. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man of middle years with thick, oily, blue-black hair combed straight back.
‘It’s been a pleasure to come to your beautiful city. I can see why you are reluctant to leave it,’ Farim replied in perfect English. He spoke softly, with the melodious accent of the well-educated Arab.
‘I have heard a great deal about you, Mr Farim,’ continued Newman, well aware of the polite, circuitous exchanges that were expected before it was considered proper to turn to the subject of real interest. Newman had dealt with Arabs before and was familiar with their customs. Farim recognised this immediately and relaxed a bit. However, his dark eyes, always restless and alert, never smiled.
‘I understand that you wish to put a business proposal to us, Mr Farim,’ began Newman after his guest had finished his second tiny cup of strong, Turkish coffee.
‘Quite so. May I speak frankly?’ asked Farim, slowly stroking the pointed beard framing his narrow face.
‘Please do,’ replied Newman, ‘it is the best way.’ He watched Farim carefully.
‘I represent a small group of Egyptian patriots who believe that their country is heading in the wrong direction and wish to rectify this lamentable situation.’ Smiling, Farim paused. He wanted to give his words time to have the desired effect. ‘In order to achieve this,’ he continued, ‘my principals wish to purchase certain merchandise ...’
Newman understood exactly what Farim was telling him. Farim was really saying that he was the agent for a group of Islamic fanatics who were about to embark on a campaign of terror to force the government of their country to alter its politics.
‘We are financiers, not merchants, Mr Farim,’ Newman pointed out quietly. ‘I cannot see how we can possibly be of assistance to you.’
‘Quite so, but it is a financier we seek. A financier with certain – shall I say – inclinations and connections. In short, a financier just like you.’ The calm, almost infuriating smile did not leave Farim’s face. However, the tiny beads of perspiration on his brow and the eyes darting nervously around the room divulged his anxiety.
‘You speak in riddles, Mr Farim. What is it you want from us?’
‘We have heard that you have participated in similar transactions before, Sir Eric.’ Farim paused and reached for a glass of water on the table in front of him. ‘In Kampuchea and Sri Lanka, for instance, and more recently in Ethiopia ... financing the purchase of certain sensitive goods in ... rather creative ways,’ he continued, haltingly feeling his way. ‘And that you are well connected with the Russians,’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘I think what Mr Farim is trying to say,’ Horst cut in, coming to Farim’s assistance, ‘is that we may be able to arrange the purchase of certain merchandise of a military nature.’
‘Precisely,’ Farim agreed, nodding gratefully.
‘I am intrigued, Mr Farim. There are many financiers much closer to home and much more experienced in matters of this kind than our small bank, yet you have travelled halfway around the world to talk to us. Why?’
‘The answer, Sir Eric, lies in the unique nature of the proposal I have been instructed to put to you,’ Farim replied, gaining confidence. ‘Let me come straight to the point: My principals are simple people of the desert with no access to the amount of Western currency that would normally be required to finance a purchase like this. However, they have the means to pay in kind – and rather handsomely too, I might add – just like the Khmer Rouge.’ Farim was, Sir Eric thought, clearly well informed about the family’s past dealings and it appeared the latest proposal was similar.
‘How?’
Farim sensed Newman’s interest and took his time. ‘With antiquities,’ he said at last. The expression on Newman’s face told him he had chosen the correct approach. Encouraged, he pressed on. ‘As you know, the ancient sands of Egypt still hold many treasures and my principals have – shall we say – ready access to their heritage.’
‘Are you suggesting that we provide you with arms in return for antiquities?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Where’s the profit?’
‘I admire your candour, Sir Eric,’ Farim said, stroking his beard. ‘We propose to sell the antiquities to you for a quarter of their market value. My agents tell me you are very well connected in the art world and would have little difficulty finding willing buyers. Needless to say, how, and for how much you sell the items, is of course entirely a matter for you.’ Farim made an expansive gesture with his right hand. ‘And besides, I understand you are quite a connoisseur yourself,’ he added cunningly, ‘who likes to keep some of the best pieces for his own collection.’
‘What about the arms? How do you suggest we agree on price there?’
‘We will pay market price. That shouldn’t be too difficult to establish,’ Farim replied without hesitation. ‘I understand there is some sort of black market price list for such things.’ Farim had done his homework.
The proposal was both ingenious and simple. It had its risks, but that was to be expected. No risk, no profit; Newman understood that. A few years earlier he would have embraced the deal without hesitation, but times had changed.
‘I have to disappoint you, Mr Farim, you have knocked on the wrong door I am afraid. Our bank is not in a position to assist you,’ Newman said sternly.
Horst began to fidget in his chair. ‘But should
n’t we at least ...’ he interjected. Newman silenced his son by raising his hand without looking at him and stood up. The meeting was over.
‘As you wish,’ Farim said, bowing politely towards his host. It was the reply he had expected. It was time to bait the hook. ‘But before I leave, there is one more matter ... I almost forgot, how foolish of me,’ Farim added smoothly. ‘Something I’m sure you will find most interesting ...’
‘And what might that be?’ Newman asked.
‘I don’t quite know how to put this. I hope you will not misunderstand ... I have strict instructions from my principals ...’
‘Please, Mr Farim, try to get to the point,’ Newman interrupted impatiently.
‘To tell you ... but only you ... privately that is ...’ Farim continued haltingly.
‘Really! Come now, let us not play games. Whatever it is you want to tell me you can tell me in front of my sons. We don’t have any secrets here.’
‘I do apologise. I didn’t mean to offend you, but as I said before, my instructions ... I cannot ... Please understand this is not my decision.’ Farim stroked his beard one more time and a troubled look clouded his face.
‘In that case, Mr Farim, I would rather not know. Horst, would you please show Mr Farim out,’ Newman said curtly, annoyed by Farim’s persistence.
‘This is most regrettable,’ Farim said casually, following Horst to the door. ‘I believe you have been looking for information about Armand de Blanquefort for a long time.’
Newman tried to get up and almost knocked over the glass of water in front of him. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded. Farim stopped at the door and slowly turned around. He was smiling again.
‘Armand de Blanquefort – the Templar – in Egypt,’ Farim answered calmly.
‘Sit down, Mr Farim. Horst, Heinrich, please leave us.’
9
‘Good evening, Horst,’ said the housekeeper, ‘your father’s waiting in the study.’
‘I am curious,’ Newman said, adjusting his dressing gown. ‘You told me it was urgent.’
‘It is ...’
‘Well?’
‘I don’t quite know how to tell you this ...’ Horst began. ‘I did something foolish the other day, something I know you won’t approve of.’ Newman walked to the sideboard and poured two whiskies. ‘I arranged a ... um, well ... a search, yes a search of ...’
‘You sound just like our Mr Farim this morning. Do try to get to the point. Here, have this, it might help.’ Newman handed Horst a scotch.
‘That journalist’s house – you know that chap Rogan ...’ Horst gulped down his drink. Newman looked at him without touching his glass. ‘There’s more, I’m afraid. Can I have another one?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘I just wanted to find out what he knew ... with the float coming up, you see, and teach him a lesson.’
‘What kind of lesson?’
‘You know, persuade him to drop the story, make him see sense ...’
‘Sense? Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you hired someone to break into the journalist’s home, search the house, and rough him up a little to make him see sense?’ Horst nodded sheepishly, and gulped down his second scotch.
‘I know it sounds bad.’
‘You cannot be serious. Who did you use?’
‘Cramer.’ At least that was good news, thought Newman. Cramer was a Vietnam veteran turned private investigator who could be trusted.
‘You must have been out of your mind. Do you realise what this could mean? Do you? If this is in some way linked to us, and that inspector, that crazy policewoman, gets wind of it ...’ hissed Newman.
‘Not a chance!’ protested Horst. ‘You know Cramer, we can rely on him.’ Horst did not mention Rogan’s injuries and hospitalisation.
‘Up to a point. You know what really puzzles me?’
‘What?’
‘Why you’re telling me all this now? I know you Horst, this is not like you. Why tell me at all?’
‘Why? Because of this,’ Horst replied, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope. ‘Cramer found this in the journalist’s study next to the photo the policewoman showed us here yesterday.’ Horst opened the envelope and handed a badly damaged black and white photograph to his father.
Newman put down his glass and held the photo under the light of the desk lamp. He examined it for a long time without saying anything, turned it over and read what was left of the singed inscription on the back, ‘Montse ...’
‘And this was apparently pinned to the photo,’ Horst explained, handing his father a piece of paper. Three names were written on it – Berenger Diderot, Marie Colbert and Francine Bijoux – and a notation underlined in red: Newman in Montsegur?
Newman paled.
‘Obviously the journalist thinks this is you,’ said Horst, pointing to the officer in the photograph. ‘I thought you should know ...’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘Certainly.’
Looking at the photo on his desk with his back to his son, Newman said, ‘Now, listen carefully. This whole woeful episode must go no further, is that clear? You will not discuss this with anyone, and you will promise me not to do anything without consulting me first, understood?’
‘Absolutely. Whatever you say. I was only trying to help,’ Horst said lamely, relieved to be getting off so lightly. ‘There’s something else you should know.’
‘You have more?’
‘Cramer saw that policewoman and the journalist – together – at his home last night. Apparently they were rather intimate ... you know ... on the kitchen table ... Cramer took some photos. I haven’t seen them yet, but ...’
‘For heaven’s sake Horst, this is not a divorce case,’ Newman interrupted impatiently.
‘I suppose Cramer just couldn’t help himself. He’s used to investigating infidelities. You never know, the pictures could come in useful one day ...’
‘Perhaps. But not now. Have you spoken to Farim?’ Newman asked, changing the subject.
‘Yes, he was obviously pleased with your decision. He’s making arrangements for the first delivery straight away. It should only be a matter of a week or so.’
‘Good. The sooner we know where we stand, the better. Now, let’s get some sleep, shall we? It has been a long day.’ Newman walked to the front door with Horst.
‘Why did you change your mind?’ Horst asked, stepping outside into the cool night. ‘What did Farim tell you? If I’m going to be dealing with him, I think I should know.’ Newman looked at his son. Horst was right; sooner or later he had to know. This was as good a time as any.
‘What I am about to tell you will remain strictly between us, is that clear? That means not even telling your brother.’
‘Absolutely, you can rely on me.’ Horst would have gladly crawled over broken glass for an opportunity to be taken into his father’s confidence.
‘Farim offered me something I’ve been searching for ... for a long time.’
‘What?’
‘Information about a warrior-monk, one of the Knights Templar,’ Newman explained.
‘What information?’
‘Proof that the Templars travelled through Egypt in the fourteenth century.’
‘Are you serious? What kind of proof?’
‘A dagger found in Egypt, which once belonged to the knight ... and something else ...’
‘You changed your mind because of an old dagger?’ interrupted Horst, shaking his head. ‘Why?’
‘Because ... of a quest begun a long time ago ... and a pact made between friends. There is more, a lot more ...’ Newman started to explain but quickly checked himself. ‘I’ll tell you about it another time. Good night, Horst,’ Newman replied curtly and closed the door.
Newman returned to his study and looked at the photograph of the young officer standing in front of the castle tower. Why had Horst arranged that clumsy burglary and turned up this old snapshot in the process? Newman bega
n to smile. Another sign? A pointer perhaps, or something more?
He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a magnifying glass and the small sheet of paper Farim had given him that afternoon. It was a photocopy of a single page written in French. The writing had faded but was still legible.
‘These are, I believe, the last words I will be able to record before our enemies overwhelm us. We are surrounded, escape is impossible,’ he began to read, running his finger slowly along the two lines. The rest of the text, except for the signature, had been masked.
But the name and date at the bottom of the page – Armand de Blanquefort – was the item of real interest. Newman examined the signature through the magnifying glass and carefully traced each letter. Forgery seemed unlikely.
How extraordinary, he thought, that after almost half a century of futile, painstaking search, Blanquefort should find him, virtually on the same day the Abbé Diderot had reappeared out of the past. Newman did not believe in coincidences, only destiny.
10
Cardinal Brandauer reached for his cane and walked slowly across to the large window overlooking the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. It was four o’clock in the morning and most of the Vatican was still sleeping. As head of the Vatican Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith and Dean of the College of Cardinals he only allowed himself four hours sleep a night. He had just knelt on his pew and folded his hands to pray when the phone rang. Annoyed, the Cardinal stood up. Reaching for the black Bakelite receiver, he noticed that the private line indicator was blinking on the panel; only a privileged few knew the number.
‘Pronto.’
‘Good morning, Sebastian. I am sorry to disturb you this early, but something important has just come up,’ Newman said, coming straight to the point. He knew the Cardinal would like it that way.
‘Eric. What is it?’
‘Armand de Blanquefort.’
‘What? Did you find something?’
‘Yes. A dagger with his family crest engraved on the blade.’
‘Are you sure?’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 5