‘My son faxed it to me yesterday from Italy.’
‘May I see it?’
‘I understand you are Ethiopian, Father, and an expert on the subject,’ Newman said, ignoring the question.
‘Quite so. Ethiopian history is my specialty.’
‘I have read your book on King Lalibela. The Cardinal sent it to me – fascinating. It would appear Lalibela was destined for great things from the very beginning. And his name means something like the bees recognise his sovereignty?’ said Newman, deliberately showing off. If the black priest was in any way surprised by this demonstration, he certainly didn’t show it.
‘According to legend, a swarm of bees hovered over the infant just after his birth. This was seen as an omen,’ Habakkuk explained calmly. ‘Lalibela was the younger half-brother of King Harbay who was very superstitious and considered this prophecy a direct threat to his throne.’
‘So much so,’ interjected Newman, ‘that he wanted Lalibela killed in infancy. Several attempts failed over the years, but ultimately Lalibela was poisoned, I think, and fell into a coma that lasted for three days.’
The priest nodded. ‘During those three days, Lalibela was lifted to heaven by angels and taken into the very presence of God who assured him of a safe and glorious future.’
‘As soon as he awoke, Lalibela fled Ethiopia and sought refuge in Jerusalem,’ Newman interrupted again. ‘He remained there for twenty-five years as a guest of the king – until 1185 to be precise – secure in the knowledge that as soon as the time was right, he was destined to return to his homeland and claim the throne. Not only that, he would build several extraordinary churches ...’
‘Following precise instructions given to him by the Almighty ... I can see you are very well informed, Sir Eric. The Cardinal did warn me about this. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow scholar interested in one’s subject.’
Newman smiled; he believed in establishing ground rules from the very beginning. ‘Well, here it is,’ said Newman, changing direction. He handed the fax to his guest.
‘These are, I believe, the last words I will be able to record before our enemies overwhelm us. We are surrounded, escape is impossible ...’ the black priest began to read, casting his eyes eagerly over the lines. Newman noticed that Habakkuk’s hands were shaking. ‘If we have offended Thee, O Lord, forgive us; if we have failed Thee, O Lord, forgive us ... But, this is a prayer,’ said the priest, disappointment clouding his face.
‘It would appear so, but please read on.’
‘Our mission to bring the Holy Relic back to France has failed – but not completely, thanks to Thee. The Holy Relic we leave behind is but a shell – empty, its very essence gone,’ Habakkuk translated. ‘The _____ of the Prophet are out of our enemies’ reach; one is on its way to France with a dispatch recording the hiding place of the other, as commanded by Thee. This is incredible,’ whispered Habakkuk. ‘Pity about the missing part here. Accidental damage or deliberate? We’ll never know.’
Newman nodded, but said nothing.
‘Protect our brother Bernard on his journey, guide him safely back to France, and give us strength to die with honour, serving Thee. This is it?’ asked Habakkuk.
‘Yes, that’s the complete text. It does read like a prayer, as you say,’ Newman replied. ‘The testament of a man about to die. It must have been written in a great hurry. What does all this tell the expert historian?’ he asked, throwing a challenge at his inscrutable visitor.
‘The missing parts of the text refer to two specific items ... that fits. One has been sent back to France with a dispatch recording the hiding place of the other. However, the text doesn’t tell us where it was written, and without knowing that, it’s practically worthless. We must ascertain where it was found.’ The black priest wiped his hot face with a white handkerchief and poured himself a glass of water.
‘Are you suggesting that once we know where it was found we will also know where it was written because ...’
‘We are surrounded, escape is impossible,’ interjected the priest, quoting from the text. ‘I think Blanquefort was making peace with God and hid the prayer and his dagger from his enemies just before he was killed. It has all the hallmarks of urgency and desperation you would expect in a situation like that.’
‘A prayer and a dagger. Quite appropriate for a warrior-monk, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes. Above all else, they were Templars ...’
‘And are you also suggesting that Blanquefort buried these things near the hiding place?’ asked Newman.
‘I do believe that is the correct interpretation. The knights died where they fell, virtually on top of, or right next to, the hiding place. The circumstances appear to suggest that,’ explained Habakkuk, holding up the page. ‘Ironic, don’t you think?’
Newman looked at his visitor with new respect. ‘But even if we are right about all that, we would still need the dispatch recording the actual hiding place, to find it.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Habakkuk, ‘it would appear so. But we would have narrowed down the possibilities considerably, and who knows, perhaps all the clues put together are enough ...’ Newman nodded, the point was compelling. ‘Do you think there’s a way we could ascertain, Sir Eric ...’ Habakkuk asked hopefully, ‘where this Blanquefort prayer was found?’
Newman walked across to the bust of Asmodeus and put his hand on the demon’s head. He stood there for quite a while, as if waiting for inspiration. ‘Blanquefort Prayer – that is a good name for it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is a way ... As for the Holy Relic Blanquefort left behind, what do you think that might have been?’ asked Sir Eric, carefully watching his visitor.
So far, neither of them had touched on that topic. In fact, they had deliberately avoided it. The black priest put the glass of water on the table in front of him and looked calmly at Newman. ‘I’m sure you know, Sir Eric.’
23
Carrington hurried across the crowded deck of the Nefertiti, the largest of the cruise ships berthed at Luxor. Surrounded by a small flotilla of feluccas crowded with eager vendors offering gaudy souvenirs to the passengers promenading on the decks above, the Nefertiti reminded Carrington of a Mississippi paddle steamer – Mark Twain meets Agatha Christie.
‘There she is, over there,’ Carrington said to Jana, who was trying to keep up with him. He pointed to a tall woman waving a straw hat.
‘Inspector Gonski?’ asked Elizabeth Carrington, extending her hand before Carrington could introduce Jana. ‘Now I can understand your enthusiasm for these arduous field trips, Marcus. Charming ladies as travel companions and exciting new discoveries – as long as they don’t go missing, I suppose. Poor darling,’ she teased, winking at Jana. There was no malice in her voice, only good-natured humour.
‘It’s tough being an archaeologist,’ complained Carrington with a shrug, kissing his wife on the cheek.
Elizabeth Carrington was one of those fortunate women who in their fifties look forty and don’t understand all the fuss about advancing age. Jana was fascinated by her natural grace and easy manner.
‘Where’s Isabella?’ asked Carrington, looking around the deck.
‘Down there by the pool with her admirers,’ explained his wife, pointing towards the back of the boat. ‘Now that you’re here, you can help me fend them off. Good luck!’ Carrington leant over the handrail and began to wave. A tall girl with long blonde hair jumped out of the pool and came running up the stairs, pursued by several tanned young men.
‘Papa, you’re here already,’ she shouted, throwing herself into his outstretched arms. Laughing, she covered his face with kisses.
‘I should go away more often,’ observed Carrington, trying to disengage from his daughter’s wet embrace. ‘I’m not always this popular.’
Isabella, at sixteen, was her mother’s clone. Mother and daughter could easily have passed for sisters. ‘Cool. You’re staying in my cabin, come,’ said Isabella, taking Jana by the hand. Jana looked at Car
rington.
‘You’d better go, she won’t take no for an answer,’ he said. ‘And besides, there isn’t another bed in Luxor. We’re all staying on the boat.’
Jana was too tired to fall asleep and stared at the low wooden ceiling of the tiny cabin. She kept turning restlessly in her narrow bunk, careful not to wake Isabella. After a while she got up and stepped outside, letting the cool breeze caress her damp face. The dark temple ruins behind the cruise ship loomed large and ominous in the ghostly light of the full moon.
When Jana looked across the moonlit Nile, she thought she could hear the chanting of priests drift across the still waters; echoes of a distant age of river gods, temple festivals and solemn funeral processions.
‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ Jana heard a soft voice whisper from behind. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Elizabeth Carrington placed her hand on the rail next to Jana’s. ‘Marcus and I have discussed this fascinating case of yours. As you know, he’s rather passionate about justice, about what’s right and what is not. He’s quite naive about it at times, you know,’ she explained, ‘all black and white and full of zeal. Just like his daughter. But I guess that’s what drives him. It’s the fire within.’ Elizabeth Carrington paused and placed her hand on Jana’s arm. ‘And besides, Marcus thrives on a challenge.’
‘Does this mean you approve?’ Jana asked hoarsely.
‘I’ll return to Australia with Isabella after the performance.’
‘But do you approve?’
‘I want what Marcus wants ...’
Jana perceived a hint of sadness in Elizabeth Carrington’s evasive reply. ‘You are very generous, thank you,’ she said, kissing the older woman spontaneously on the cheek.
24
The interrogation cells in the basement of Chief Inspector Haddad’s police headquarters in Cairo were reserved for prisoners requiring special attention.
‘Stop! Can’t you see he’s unconscious, you fool,’ shouted Haddad, stepping into the tiny cell. The surprised guard turned around, wiped the blood from his knuckles and adjusted the sweat-stained braces cutting into the muscles of his hairy chest.
Mustafa sat on a wooden stool in the middle of the whitewashed cell. His hands were tied behind his back and blood oozed out of the corner of his open mouth, showing a row of broken teeth. With his nose crushed and one of his ears almost severed, he looked like a sitting corpse. Haddad was afraid he was already dead.
‘Water!’ ordered Haddad. The guard hurried out of the cell. As the senior police officer entrusted with the impossible task of protecting the visiting dignitaries, Haddad had urged his superiors without success to cancel the Luxor performance. His reports had fallen on deaf ears and were considered a nuisance.
The bazaars and coffee houses were abuzz with rumours of conspiracies, new secret Islamic societies, and Jihad – Holy War. What Haddad needed was proof, not rumours. He was convinced that some kind of terrorist attack was imminent and suspected that the recent theft of the statue was somehow connected with it.
The guard returned with a bucket. Haddad poured a little water into Mustafa’s open mouth and the rest over his lacerated head. The cool water appeared to revive the prisoner. Greedily, he began to lick his swollen lips. Haddad clenched his fists; time was running out. He should be in Luxor by now, not interrogating this pathetic prisoner. The performance was due to begin in less than twenty-four hours and the prisoner was dying. It was going to be a long night.
‘You want the pain to stop, don’t you?’ began Haddad, whispering seductively into Mustafa’s bleeding ear. The prisoner nodded. ‘Then tell me, who stole the statue?’
Haddad looked anxiously at the departure board. He noticed that the early morning plane to Luxor was late as usual. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he flicked impatiently through the pages of his notebook. He was trying to make sense of the incoherent snippets of information he had managed to extract from Mustafa during the night. Just before sunrise the prisoner had finally lapsed into a coma; further interrogation was futile. Haddad loosened his tie and ordered another coffee.
The statue had been smuggled out of Egypt and had already been sold on the black market; so much was clear. The word Jihad – Holy War – was mentioned several times, together with the mantra ‘Death to the Great Satan’. Haddad tried hard to concentrate and stared bleary-eyed at his notes.
‘The world will hear the music and see the blood of the Great Satan flow into the sand. Many will die,’ he read aloud. ‘The evil stain of blasphemy will be erased from the holy shrines and the true word of the Prophet will be victorious.’
‘What does it all mean?’ he asked himself. This sounded more like a prophecy than a confession. Was this a clever riddle based on some disguised truth, or merely the ravings of a hallucinating wretch close to death? Had the prisoner been toying with him? Haddad cursed the careless guard for his ignorant brutality, closed his notebook and boarded the plane.
For several years the Egyptian government had tried in vain to persuade the world that it was safe again to travel through the land of the pharaohs. Despite all the assurances, the tourists stayed away. Obviously something more was needed.
An entrepreneur from California recognised an opportunity and came up with a unique idea: an opera performance on a grand scale to showcase the monuments of Ancient Egypt. The obvious choice was Verdi’s Aida; the venue, the Luxor temple. By engaging the best singers, a famous conductor and a cast of hundreds of locals to provide colour and authenticity, Aida by the Nile would become the social event of the year. The man was prepared to spend millions in return for the television rights.
The proposal was enthusiastically embraced by the Egyptian authorities and the few sober voices counselling caution and restraint were swept away by the overwhelming support for the imaginative plan. Generous payments into the right pockets, the promise of lucrative local employment and future flow of tourist dollars, sealed the deal. Suddenly everyone had short memories. Forgotten were the atrocities of the past, the bombings, the shootings, the burning tourist buses, the gutted hotel foyers and maimed bodies. The obvious risks and dangers were simply ignored. The only thing that really mattered was to have an invitation.
When Haddad arrived at the Luxor temple, the final preparations for the evening’s gala performance were nearing completion. He was stunned by the size of the production. TV crews from all the major networks – especially Europe and the US – were setting up their equipment. Local porters were hauling gear up steel ladders leading to the top of purpose built towers. Strategically positioned around the temple forecourt, the towers were there to provide the best possible vantage points for the cameras. Surrounded by a maze of cables criss-crossing the forecourt, technicians were adjusting mobile satellite dishes for test transmissions; massive generators were humming in the background.
Seated inside a pit in front of the stage, a symphony orchestra from the UK was rehearsing in the glare of the noonday sun. Only mad dogs and Englishmen, thought Haddad, shaking his head. Suddenly, an army dressed in exotic costumes came marching through the portals, the cheering soldiers waving at rows of empty seats. An excited little man holding a sun umbrella was shouting directions through a megaphone.
‘This is madness,’ mumbled Haddad. He had done his best to warn his superiors. However, he had to admit that the little information he had finally been able to piece together after Mustafa’s disappointing interrogation, sounded rather vague and speculative. Not surprisingly, his report had been ignored. Fanning his flushed face with his hat, he stared at the countless rows of seats crammed into the temple forecourt. Once seated, the spectators would be vulnerable and trapped, Haddad noted unhappily. He rubbed his aching neck; if he wanted to stay alert, he had to get some sleep. When he looked up at the colossal statue of Ramses towering above him, he could still hear Mustafa’s slurred words: The world will hear the music and see the blood of the Great Satan flow into the sand; many will die, but not I. I will go to paradise. Haddad clenched
his fists in frustration, turned around and hurried back to his waiting car.
Sheikh Omar wiped the sweat from his brow with the end of his turban and walked across the empty stage. As one of the few English-speaking volunteers helping the organisers communicate with the locals, he had free access to all the facilities. A group of bored soldiers stood aimlessly around the temple forecourt. They paid no attention to the workmen preparing to go home. As far as the soldiers were concerned, the rehearsal was over.
‘The victory procession will enter over there,’ explained Sheikh Omar, pointing to a gap in the temple wall. ‘The elephants and the drummers will come through here,’ he said and walked towards another opening in the wall behind the orchestra. ‘And the torch bearers through that arch over there. It will be chaos, I promise you.’ He smiled at the young martyrs hanging on his every word. ‘Now, let’s go over it once more,’ he said, ‘and remember, timing is everything.’
During the past few weeks, the Brotherhood had successfully infiltrated the entire opera cast. Members of the Brotherhood would be marching in the victory procession, handling elephants and showing the guests to their seats. Two suicide bombers were even playing in the orchestra. The elaborate rehearsals had provided an excellent preview of the carefully choreographed performance to come.
While Radames and Aida were planning their stage death in the crypt below the temple of Vulcan, Sheikh Omar was plotting real death and mayhem on a scale that would have challenged the imagination of even the most ambitious librettist.
25
‘A caleche! How did you manage this?’ asked Elizabeth Carrington, letting go of her husband’s arm. She pointed to the horse-drawn open carriage pulling up in front of the jetty. The other passengers leaving the cruise ship were eyeing them enviously; they were piling into old buses without seats.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 11