‘Preventing the faithful from falling into error is our duty! The Church has done so, many times – I can point to countless examples, and so can you.’
‘Yes, of bloodshed and torture, bigotry and ruthless persecution – all tried and tested tools of the Inquisition – the end justifies the means,’ snapped Frumentius. ‘Eradicate heresy at all cost – the Albigensian Crusade, the burning of the Cathars at Montsegur – do you still believe that? We are no longer in the Dark Ages, you know.’ Habakkuk didn’t reply. ‘I see. We agree to disagree, nothing has changed.’
‘He’s turned you down, again?’ asked Habakkuk.
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘You don’t have to; I can work it out for myself ...’
Frumentius looked sadly at Habakkuk. ‘You have a lot of influence, I hear; especially with the Cardinal. Could you ... perhaps ...?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Are you staying in Rome for a while?’ asked Habakkuk, watching his friend carefully. He was well aware that Frumentius had a great deal of influence himself, in very powerful circles. Habakkuk knew he had to be careful.
‘I will stay here until you come back from Sydney,’ replied Frumentius calmly. ‘Armand de Blanquefort could be telling us something new,’ he whispered.
Habakkuk shook his head, laughing. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. My conversation with the Cardinal was less than half an hour ago. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘You once told me, the Vatican has the highest concentration of keen ears in the world,’ replied Frumentius, pointing a finger at Habakkuk. ‘No whisper is too soft, no gesture too subtle, no language too exotic to be safe. Your words. We used to joke about it, but it’s true.’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.’ Alarmed by the detail and accuracy of Frumentius’ intelligence, Habakkuk sensed danger. Obviously, Frumentius had sources close to the Cardinal. Very close ...
‘Remember when we used to run barefoot through the mountains back home in Axum; remember we pretended to be marathon runners?’ asked Frumentius, changing topics.
‘Dreaming of the Olympic Games ... look at us, great runners we turned out to be – eh? Black cassocks and sandals and no running shoes or shorts.’
‘We are still running, my friend, believe me. Only the race has changed and the stakes are higher,’ observed Frumentius quietly.
‘All right. How about this: Wait here until I get back from Australia. If I find anything worthwhile, I’ll tell you. I will also speak to the Cardinal about the archives ...’
Frumentius looked up, surprised. This wasn’t what he had expected. ‘The Diderot papers ... I must ...’
‘I know.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Why? Because I believe I can persuade you ...’
‘Persuade me?’
‘To follow the right path,’ Habakkuk reminded his friend.
‘Isn’t that a little presumptuous?’
‘Touché. Perhaps it is.’ They both burst out laughing.
13
‘You’ve surprised me. I didn’t expect you to come all the way up here to find me,’ said Dr Rosen, pouring boiling tea into a mug. ‘I received a cryptic note from Father Schaffer about you the other day.’ She smiled encouragingly at Jana. ‘What would bring an Australian Federal Police officer to this remote part of the world, I have to ask myself. Another nomination perhaps? I’ve already been Australian of the Year once,’ she joked, sipping her tea.
‘It’s nothing like that, I’m afraid,’ Jana replied, searching for the best way to broach the sensitive subject. The hot rim of the mug scalded her lips but she didn’t flinch. As she looked at the confident, composed woman sitting in the canvas chair opposite, Jana sensed that candour would be best. ‘I’m here about your father ...’
Dr Rosen paled. ‘My father? In what way?’
Jana pulled a manilla folder wrapped in plastic out of her dripping backpack and opened it. ‘It got a little wet,’ she said, holding up a large photograph. She dried it with her sleeve and handed it to Dr Rosen. The mood in the small tent changed abruptly. The music stopped and the blunt gramophone needle scratched across the record. Coming to rest in a cracked groove, it continued to go ’round and ’round with annoying monotony.
‘Where did you get this?’ whispered Dr Rosen, her voice sounding hoarse.
‘I don’t think I have to ask if you’ve seen this photograph before,’ Jana said quietly, ‘do I?’ Dr Rosen didn’t reply.
‘May I come in?’ Daniel asked, opening the flap of the tent. ‘Can’t you hear the drums? The dancing is about to start. Come, quickly.’
The two women followed Daniel down the hill. Fires had been lit in front of the ceremonial men’s hut in the middle of the village. Walking into the circle of light, Jana noticed they were surrounded by excited villagers watching them from all sides. Pushing through the crowd, Daniel walked towards a group of elders squatting next to the fires.
‘If you sit here you will see everything,’ he said, pointing to a grass mat. Dr Rosen bowed and said something to one of the elders. They sat down next to a toothless old man with a large pig’s tusk through his nose.
‘This is the chief of the village,’ Dr Rosen whispered, turning to Jana. ‘Sitting here is quite an honour, especially for a woman. We are very privileged to witness this, you know. There aren’t many places left where they perform the kiama the traditional way.’ Daniel sat next to Jana. Chanting, what Jana later learned were magic spells, a group of drummers came towards them, their naked, muscular bodies glistening with sweat.
‘How my husband would have loved this,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘He was fascinated by these ceremonies. He thought of them as little windows, a brief glimpse into the true soul of the people.’ The drummers formed a semicircle in front of the chief.
‘Here they come,’ shouted Daniel. A ripple of excitement washed over the villagers. Three young men wearing costumes of tapa cloth, colourful feathers and tiny shells stepped into the light. Slowly, they began to dance.
‘My husband was Jewish, as you no doubt know, and almost twenty years older,’ began Dr Rosen, turning the conversation back to the photograph. ‘He was a Holocaust survivor, one of the few who emerged out of the horror with his humanity, his compassion and his ability to love intact. Not only was he a gifted healer and a wonderful teacher, he genuinely loved people. You were, of course, quite right; I’ve seen the photo before – a long, long time ago,’ admitted Dr Rosen. ‘As you can see, you caught me by surprise. I didn’t expect to see it again – ever.’
I knew it, thought Jana, finding it difficult to control her excitement, Newman lied! The first crack in his smug, arrogant denial had appeared.
Balancing a pole decorated at the top with long feathers, a dancer called the kovoi joined the drummers. ‘The pole represents the kovoi tree, the home of the bird-of-paradise,’ explained Daniel. A young woman holding a thick rope attached to the top of the pole began to dance around the make-believe kovoi tree.
‘Where did you see it?’ Jana pressed on.
‘I don’t know where this is leading,’ replied Dr Rosen, sidestepping the question. One of the drummers jumped over the fire, furiously beating his kundu drum.
‘To the truth, if we have the courage,’ said Jana quietly.
‘The truth, my dear, is not always easy to find and often when we do – sometimes quite accidentally – we don’t like what we see. But there’s no turning back. The truth can be dangerous and destructive. It has the power to change us, and our lives, forever.’
‘Is that what happened?’ Jana asked.
‘I must have been about twelve or thirteen at the time,’ began Dr Rosen. ‘A visitor from South America – one of my father’s closest friends – was staying with us. I remember; he came almost every year. How I dreaded those visits. My father used to turn into a different man when he was with his friend. He became loud and rude and aggressive, especially towards my mother. He
and his friend drank a lot and talked about the War and their Kameraden, their mates. When they got drunk, which was often, they used to sing German songs; always the same songs. I can still remember one of them – the Horst Wessel song. For some reason my mother hated it with a passion. Why am I telling you all this?’ asked Dr Rosen, turning towards Jana. ‘I haven’t spoken about this in years.’
‘My mother believed that all of us experience moments of destiny, when we say or do things not because we want to, but because we must. Perhaps this is such a moment,’ ventured Jana.
‘A moment of destiny?’ repeated Dr Rosen pensively. ‘Perhaps. I can still remember this clearly: It was a rainy evening in summer, oppressively hot and humid. My father and his friend sat on the veranda of our holiday cottage in the Blue Mountains. They were drinking beer as usual. I went into my father’s study – I can’t recall why – and there on his desk was this horrible photograph. His friend must have given it to him. I showed it to my mother and she confronted my father with it. That was certainly a moment of destiny; he hit her so hard she fell to the ground, bleeding. I will never forget it. After that, our life changed. The terrible fights began; the shouting, the long silences, the violence. My mother had discovered something she wasn’t supposed to know.’ Dr Rosen paused. ‘Whatever it was, it ultimately destroyed her,’ she added quietly.
Finding it hard to keep awake, Jana watched the sweating bodies of the dancers merge into a wild spectacle of colour and motion. Overcome by exhaustion, she closed her eyes, resting her head against Dr Rosen’s shoulder.
Jana was woken by the hum of strange voices. Bright sunshine flooded into the tent, almost blinding her. She sat up in the hard camp bed and looked through the open flap. Dr Rosen stood outside, examining an old woman.
‘Welcome to my surgery,’ said Dr Rosen, without turning around. ‘I left you some breakfast, help yourself. I’m almost finished.’ Supported by two boys, the last patient hobbled away. ‘Congratulations, you slept through the entire morning consultation. My patients were most intrigued,’ Dr Rosen said, taking off her white gown. Jana felt a little drowsy and disorientated. Everything looked different in daylight.
‘Unlike you, I couldn’t sleep at all,’ said Dr Rosen. She walked to the small camp table in the middle of the tent and began to rummage through her papers. ‘I thought about those moments of destiny you mentioned last night.’ She found the photograph and held it up. ‘Ultimately, we cannot hide from ourselves, nor can we deny the truth.’ Jana sensed that the right moment had arrived to pose the big question.
‘In that case, let me ask you this: Is that your father?’ Jana pointed to the photo in Dr Rosen’s hand.
‘You have no idea how often I have asked myself that. You see, my mother thought so. No, I should really say she sensed it, I suppose,’ she corrected herself. ‘But I? I honestly don’t know.’
‘Would you like to know?’ asked Jana.
‘That’s a very dangerous question. Some things in life are best left alone, especially after such a long time. My mother’s dead, but old wounds can still bleed.’
‘Is that what you really think?’
‘No, that’s what I would like to think.’
Dr Rosen looked suddenly very tired. The sleepless night, the painful memories, the soul-searching, the agonising doubts and recriminations were finally catching up with her. During the long, lonely hours of the early morning she had reached into every corner of her heart. Conjured up from the distant past by the extraordinary photograph, feelings and memories she had suppressed for years had reappeared as powerful and real as ever. ‘What happens now?’ she asked.
‘I prepare a report,’ replied Jana, smiling reassuringly at Dr Rosen.
‘And then?’
Jana shrugged and reached for the manilla folder on top of her backpack.
‘That’s for others to decide.’ When she opened the folder, several photographs fell out. ‘What are these?’ asked Dr Rosen, pointing to the floor.
‘Enlargements of certain sections of the photo. Here, for instance, is one of the boat in the background,’ explained Jana. ‘And here, a detail of some of the crates with markings of the Reichsbank, and over here a violin case, of all things, under the officer’s arm. Isn’t it curious? Somehow it just doesn’t seem to fit.’
‘A violin case?’ Dr Rosen looked stunned. ‘Show me!’ Jana handed her the photograph.
‘You can’t really notice it in the original; it’s too small and almost hidden under his coat. But here in the enlargement it’s quite obvious,’ explained Jana, pointing to the violin case.
Dr Rosen’s face had turned ashen. ‘Please forgive me,’ she said, wiping away a few tears, and hurried out of the tent.
Jana followed Dr Rosen down to the village and found her kneeling on the ground by a stream. She was washing her face in the clear, cool water.
‘Before you go, I’d like to show you something,’ said Dr Rosen, drying her face with a handkerchief. ‘Come.’ She stood up, and took Jana by the hand.
Jana followed her into the forest. After a short climb they came to a small clearing and looked up. A waterfall roared out of a moss-covered cave in the side of the mountain high above them and cascaded down into a deep, almost circular rock pool. Fingers of bright sunlight reached hesitantly through the gloom and came to rest on the smooth surface of the wet rock below. A spray of tiny droplets rose high into the clear, morning air and formed a rainbow. Overcome by the breathtaking beauty of nature’s timeless perfection, the two women stood in awe, watching.
‘I come here often,’ said Dr Rosen, ‘somehow, it’s never the same.’ She had to shout to make herself heard. ‘The morning is my favourite. There’s something divine, something cleansing about the first light of a new day. It’s like a rebirth, a new beginning. I came here at dawn to think about my father. After a while, everything became clear. I realised that I do want to know; must know,’ she added calmly, reaching for Jana’s hand. ‘Come, there’s something I have to tell you about that violin case.’
14
Horst walked over to Farim waiting in the hotel lobby. ‘Welcome to Istanbul,’ Farim said, extending his hand. The Egyptian’s appearance surprised him: a crumpled sports jacket and baggy trousers had replaced the slick business suit he had worn in Sydney. The top two buttons of his shirt were missing, showing a hairy chest and a gold chain around his thick neck. Badly in need of a shave, and with dark shadows under his eyes, Farim looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week.
Horst motioned towards the bar and ordered coffee. ‘I can only stay for two days,’ he explained. ‘My art expert is arriving from Amsterdam this afternoon to value the – samples. Will you be ready?’
‘Excellent! The artefacts will arrive by boat from Alexandria tonight. I just spoke to the captain. What about the Russian?’
‘You will meet him tomorrow,’ snapped Horst, ‘provided everything is in order.’
Newman had insisted on a sample before going ahead with the deal. The antiquities had to be authenticated and valued by an expert of his choice – Jan VonderHaar, an old business contact. Not only was VonderHaar a leading Egyptologist working as a restorer in the National Museum of Antiquities at Leyden, but, more importantly, he was prepared to provide his services – for a generous fee, of course – without asking too many questions. He understood the intricacies of the fickle antiquities market, was well connected and knew how to keep his mouth shut.
It was almost midnight by the time the Sobek, a small wooden fishing vessel named after the ancient Egyptian crocodile god, steamed up the Golden Horn, and berthed near the Galata Bridge. Farim went aboard first and embraced the bearded captain waiting for him on deck. The two men spoke excitedly in Arabic and went below, leaving Horst and VonderHaar standing on the wharf. Farim reappeared moments later carrying a small wooden crate under his arm and waved them on board.
Horst followed Farim into the tiny wheelhouse. He found the nauseating smell of unwashed bodies
, rotting fish and diesel fuel almost unbearable. Farim placed the crate on the chart table and began to attack the lid with a crowbar. The crate was filled with pieces of sackcloth, crumpled newspaper and strips of old rags. Slowly, he lifted a vase-like object the size of a small doll wrapped tightly in sheets of bubbled plastic out of the crate, and placed it carefully on the table.
‘Please, open it,’ Farim said, turning towards VonderHaar.
‘This is superb,’ VonderHaar exclaimed, unable to control his excitement. Peeling away the plastic, he exposed a pair of pointed ears belonging to Duamutef, the jackal-headed deity. When he held it up against the lantern, the alabaster vessel appeared almost translucent.
‘Definitely New Kingdom, approximately 1500 BC. Splendid workmanship,’ announced VonderHaar, caressing the smooth surface of the jar with his fingertips. ‘If the set is complete, it would rival some of the best I’ve seen.’ He put the lid back and began to unpack the next parcel.
‘Please explain, what is it?’ asked Horst.
‘You don’t know?’ asked VonderHaar, surprised by Horst’s ignorance. ‘These are Canopic jars. There should be four of them. They were used by the ancient Egyptians to preserve the internal organs of the deceased, which were ritually removed from the body during mummification,’ lectured VonderHaar.
‘Well, what do you think, Professor?’ Farim asked impatiently.
‘Museum quality; the best I’ve come across for a long time.’ VonderHaar was itching to ask where Farim had got them from, but knew better.
‘Is there a market for these?’ enquired Horst eagerly. VonderHaar’s enthusiasm was infectious.
‘Certainly,’ VonderHaar replied without hesitation.
‘How would you sell them?’
‘That depends. If you wanted to sell quickly – no questions asked – you could approach one of the dealers I can introduce you to. They could easily place a set like this with a private collector. To get the best price, however, you would have to go to auction. Either in London or New York. To go to auction you have to be able to substantiate title.’ VonderHaar raised an eyebrow and looked at Farim. ‘In other words, provide provenance,’ he added emphatically.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 7