The Eye of Ra

by Michael Asher

  ‘Indaloo?’

  ‘Yeah, it was kind of a joke way of saying “in the loo” we had when I was a kid. So I think she’s telling me there’s something in the John. I went in there, lifted the lid of the porcelain, and there it was, in a plastic bag strapped inside under the pipes so cleverly you’d have had to know it was there to find it. That was Mum’s cloak-and-dagger training.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He fumbled in a ragged army-surplus knapsack and came out with a standard cassette tape. ‘It was this. Addressed to you.’

  ‘You listened to it?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about — Eye of Ra Society and Monterhopper fifteenth or something — Mum’s usual claptrap. I mean, I used to get all that up to the neck when I was a kid and it just turns me off. Then, right near the end things start to sound a bit hairy. Why don’t you listen to it?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Vee hef vays ov mekkin things tok,’ he said, pulling out a black Sony Walkman. He snapped the tape in, then pushed it over to me. I attached the earphones carefully and punched ‘play’.

  42

  Jamie — Doc’s voice began shrilly — If you’re listening and you’ve found this tape, then I’m probably in deep shit. Anyway, I had to do what I did, darling, and I don’t regret it. I owed it to Ronnie, at least. Since I found out what happened to him and that I’d been right all the time, I just haven’t given a shit any more. Last time we spoke on the phone I told you I’d made an appointment with Montuhotep XV of the Eye of Ra Society. Well I kept the appointment and I have to say from the beginning I’m impressed: offices over a department store, all very swish — and I get the feeling that apart from the downstairs the Society occupies the whole place. I mean plenty of dosh, you know. Uniformed doorman takes me up in the lift —very smart and clean by Cairo standards — and I’m plonked in a waiting room with potted papyrus plants and prints of Seti I, Ramses II, and assorted 19th Dynasty pharaohs. There’s the Roberts print of the Temple at Abu Simbel done in 1886, with the colossi of Ramses II sitting there complacently half-buried in sand, and there’s the Perriot-Chipiez engraving of the same pharaoh seated holding the crook on his shoulder. There was definitely a preoccupation with the 19th Dynasty, I noticed — no 18th Dynasty, no Tutankhamen, no Old Kingdom. And of course, everywhere you looked there was the goddess Isis, the Ankh symbol and the Eye of Ra. Five minutes later a man comes out, brown as a berry, shaven head — hairless, deep-lined face, about sixty-five, seventy. Looks as if he should be wearing some kind of Hare Krishna get-up but instead he’s got on this very nicely cut dark suit. Doesn’t look like a religious maniac. In fact, there’s an air of dignity about him — still eyes, watchful, weighing up everything. I suppose that’s the most dangerous kind. He’s dominating somehow, as if he’s used to dishing out orders. ‘Mrs Smith?’ he asks. Immaculate English. ‘And which magazine is it you write for?’

  ‘I work for the Gamma Agency,’ I say. ‘We can speak in Arabic if you want. I’m quite fluent.’

  He looks at me as if I’ve just farted. ‘Arabic is not the language of our people,’ he says, ‘it is the language of foreign invaders. Our language is ancient Egyptian. Do you speak ancient Egyptian, Mrs Smith?’

  ‘Not fluently, no,’ I say.

  He smiles, quite charmingly as if he gets the joke. ‘Then might I suggest we confine ourselves to English?’ he says. It’s all good humoured and civilised, but I have the feeling he’s watching me closely. And I feel he’s not Egyptian, not even Arab. His English is just too perfect — Yank accent, cultured. I feel like asking him to give me a burst of ancient Egyptian just to see how fluent he is — but I decide against. We sit down and some lackey brings coffee. Without turning a hair he introduces himself as the Scribe Sha-Tehuti, but then he sort of grins and says, Tut you can call me Jibril.’ He asks how he can help. ‘I did want to talk to Montuhotep XV,’ I say.

  ‘Her Grace is very busy, you understand,’ he says. ‘She can only see you for a few minutes. Meanwhile, perhaps I can be of assistance.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, making a show of how disappointed I am. I launch into my interview: origin and objects of the Society, and that kind of thing. ‘The Society was formed around the turn of the century,’ he says, ‘coinciding with the intense interest in Egypt arising in the West. Its founders wanted to preserve the authentic culture of ancient Egypt, which they were afraid was being lost under Western romanticism. Has it ever struck you, Mrs Smith, how deeply the memory of ancient Egypt has infiltrated the Western psyche? Have you ever noticed, for instance, that the American dollar bill depicts both a pyramid and the Eye of Ra? Did you know that the sign doctors make on a medical prescription, “Rx”, is derived from the Eye of Ra symbol? Are you aware that the Freemasons trace their rites back to ancient Egypt? All these are, of course, worthless simulacra, debased by centuries of foreign interference, a travesty of the true forms which may be traced back to the dawn of Egyptian civilisation. It is the aim of the Eye of Ra Society to re-establish those original forms.’

  ‘But isn’t such debasement inevitable?’ I asked. ‘I mean old forms always take on new meanings as societies develop.’

  ‘The ancient Egyptians had a concept called Ma ‘at. Ma ‘at was perceived as a beautiful woman — the personification of harmony and truth. It is Ma ‘at which determines the true forms — forms which were interrupted more than once even in ancient times but which were always eventually re-established.’

  ‘So Ma’at means the status-quo?’

  He snickers. ‘A cheap Latin phrase,’ he says, ‘cannot express an idea of Divine Harmony which governed a most sophisticated state for thousands of years — millennia before the Latin language even existed. No, Mrs Smith, Ma ‘at is quite definitely not the “status quo”. Ma ‘at is the cosmos as it was meant to be. The Eye of Ra Society is the twentieth-century guardian of Ma ‘at.’

  ‘Fine, but if your Society only goes back to 1900, how come Madame Montuhotep claims direct line of descent from Isis, 10,000 years ago?’

  He smiles as if he’s been expecting this one. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘The Eye of Ra Society is only the latest incarnation of an institution known by many names, that has existed since time immemorial. It flourished as a focus of resistance during the Arab invasions of the 7th century AD , for instance, but it had already been in existence for ages then. You can say that, in one form or another, the Eye of Ra Society has never ceased to exist since the Neteru walked the earth.’

  ‘Neteru?’

  ‘Some call them “gods” but the term is inaccurate. We call them the Shining Ones, or the Dwellers-in-the-Sky. In Mesopotamian myth they are called Oannes, in Dogon mythology Nommos. Isis, Osiris, Horus and the others were real flesh and blood, and were only absorbed into myth after their deaths. That is why it is more correct to refer to them as Neteru than gods.’

  It’s just getting interesting, but before I can quiz him again there’s a buzz and he pulls a cell-phone from under his jacket. He excuses himself for a few minutes, then comes back saying it’s time to meet ‘Her Grace’. He escorts me down a corridor to a very plush-looking office suite — soundproofed, air-conditioned, marble floors and pillars and Persian carpets. A stately, powerful-looking woman — sort of Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra — is sitting behind a giant desk in the middle of it all, wearing some kind of gold lame dress and a tiara with a cobra design on it. Behind her desk there’s a huge Eye of Ra painted on the wall. She stands up and gives me her hand; I wonder if I’m expected to kiss it. Her face is aristocratic — high cheekbones and sharp angles — and she’s heavily made up, eyes lined with kohl, eyelids stained black. Rich perfume. She looks very chic, but also stern and regal - about forty-odd with dark eyes, jet-black hair done up in an elaborate coiffure, ivory white skin as if she’s never been in the sun at all. We sit down in a very ornate courtesy suite and there’s a bit of small talk about how difficult it is to keep up the standards of Divine Kingsh
ip after ten thousand years, and how you can’t get the help these days. I ask her what’s the significance of the ‘Lotus Throne’ and her eyes take on this faraway look.

  ‘The world was once a boundless sea,’ she says in this ethereal voice — heavy accent — ‘and out of the sea rose a shining lotus bud which brought light and perfume to the earth. The lotus became the sun which breaks forth from the dark waters each morning. The lotus is the soul of Ra.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, not quite seeing the point, ‘but how come you’re sitting on the throne of Isis?’

  ‘I am the incarnation of the Great Mother,’ she says, ‘after ten thousand years. In every generation Isis is reborn. In this generation I was chosen.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the Society. It is the Society that makes the King, and Isis is the Society.’

  I want to point out the obvious — that she isn’t a king —but then, I think, she might cite Hatchepsut, the 18th Dynasty queen who ruled as a pharaoh. I take it her answer means she’s self-appointed, anyway, so I ask where the Society gets its funding. ‘From the subscriptions of its faithful members,’ she says, ‘but the Society does not exist for profit. It exists to promote the re-establishment of the concepts of ancient Egypt in their purest form. Isis and Osiris will be resurrected!’ I notice that her eyes are shining — she really believes this drivel.

  Suddenly Jibril’s cell-phone buzzes again and he answers it. While he’s talking in monosyllables I look around and once again I notice that there are all these 19th Dynasty artefacts and images on the wall. When Jibril’s finished his conversation, I ask: ‘Why this preoccupation with the 19th Dynasty? Where’s Tutankhamen and Khufu and the rest?’

  ‘The 19th Dynasty restored Ma‘at after the depredations of the Great Heretic,’ he says.

  ‘Great Heretic?’ I ask. ‘Do you mean Akhnaton?’

  Suddenly, they’re both staring at me as if I’ve said a four-letter word, and I see I’ve hit paydirt. ‘Wasn’t he just a religious dreamer? A sort of mystic?’

  Again, it’s Sha-Tehuti — ‘Jibril’ — who answers. ‘The Great Heretic banished all the Neteru and replaced them with the Aton. He was a tyrannical dictator who wanted to force his beliefs on the people. He betrayed Ma‘at. It wasn’t until Seti I, Ramses II, and the 19th Dynasty that the menace was removed for ever. The Great Heretic’s name should have been excised from history. It probably would have been if not for meddling foreigners.’

  ‘Like whom?’ I ask, but they’re both watching me silently and I think Jibril has had enough. I decide to risk it anyway: ‘Do you mean like Dr Julian Cranwell?’ I ask.

  Montuhotep looks lost. Jibril screws up his eyes. ‘Who?’ he asks.

  ‘The eminent Egyptologist. He was found dead last week at the pyramids. Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ he says, but there’s a hesitation. I’d swear he’s lying. It’s too late, though. My last question has blown it. Jibril’s regarding me very suspiciously.

  ‘Just who are you, Mrs Smith?’ he asks. Voice cold as a cobra.

  ‘A journalist.’

  ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘I’ve just phoned the Gamma Agency. They’ve never heard of you.’

  The situation was looking very dicey. ‘I’m freelance,’ I said, ‘I have worked for the Gamma Agency in the past, they probably just didn’t remember my name.’

  ‘I feel you have come here under false pretences,’ Jibril said, ‘and I suggest you leave at once, or else I shall call the Mukhabaraat.’

  I beat a hasty retreat. That question about Julian was way out of line — impulsive — but then he’d blown my cover anyway. I’d parked my car down the street, but when I got there I decided I’d hang out a bit to see what kind of ‘clients’ went in and out of the place. Montuhotep seemed the full-flown head-banger, but I wasn’t so sure about Jibril. There was a calculating manner beneath all his talk of ‘The Shining Ones’ and the ‘Great Heretic’. I couldn’t get over the obvious opulence. Where did the money come from? Not from the contributions of faithful believers alone. I wondered if there was something behind it like drugs or gun-running. Maybe they’re just a couple of rich crackpots who like dressing up as Pharaohs. All good clean escapism, why not? But I had a feeling, so I sat there and lit a fag and an hour went by. Nothing. Nobody went in or out. Another hour passed, another couple of fags. Nothing. I’d forgotten how deadly boring surveillance assignments could be.

  I sat there for another half-hour, and I was just about to give up and go round to the Semiramis for a snort, when a man got out of this limo outside the office. An Egyptian —small chap, pot belly, balding. Looked round furtively then marched inside. I only saw him for a second, but I knew the face at once: it was your friend Dr Abbas Rifad, Director General of the Antiquities Service. What the heck was he doing there? I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall when he met Jibril. I decided to wait and see how long he stayed, and another twenty minutes passed. It was evidently not going to be a quick meeting, so I decided I wasn’t going to sit there for another three hours till he came out. I was just about to start up, when another car pulled up outside the office, and out jumped a European. I knew him too: it was Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul, Melvin Renner.

  That was enough for me, Jamie. I started up and headed off hotfoot. I get back, bolt the door and look out of the window. Guess what? My two smokers are back outside under the tree. Something tells me I was right first time —they’re eyes. They’ve got a bead on me. I know you were right. I should have gone to Rabjohn’s with you, but I just couldn’t, Jamie. It would have killed me. So I cocked the old PP and started making this tape. I don’t know what all this shit is about, but there’s one thing for sure. Whatever it is the Eye of Ra Society is up to, the Antiquities Service and the British Foreign Service are in it up to their scrawny necks...

  ***

  The sound-track crackled and went dead. I switched it off.

  ‘Is that it?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Look David, we haven’t got much time. Are you sure nobody followed you here?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. I mean I never wanted to be mixed up in all this secret squirrel shit. Came on the bus to Kharja, actually. Checked out al-Maqs, where you were supposed to be, and it looked like it’d been struck by lightning. Houses all burned out, and shit, man, there’s this old guy tied to a tree with his throat cut. I mean for Chrissake, man, what’s all this shit about?’

  ‘So you checked in here?’

  ‘Yeah, some dump, eh?’

  I cast an eye over his belongings. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’d better come...’

  ‘Hey, I don’t know.’

  ‘Believe me,’ I was saying, ‘you’ll be safer with us...’ when an image tweaked my brain so hard I caught my breath — a momentary picture of the window shattering and the two of us rolling on the concrete floor. ‘Get down!’ I yelled, and a split second later gunfire stabbed out of the night with a shock that split the glass into slivers and sent the oil-lamp spinning. ‘Shit!’ David grunted. I listened, and heard the ruckle of sub-machine-guns, followed by the crack and thump of rifle fire. ‘Somebody bumped us!’ I said.

  ‘No shit! Let’s get out of here!’

  We dived out into the night to find a battle in progress. Tongues of yellow flame were spouting out of the palm-groves opposite. The Hawazim, dug in behind sand-banks under the stone-pines near by, were blazing back with aimed shots. We raced for the pine-grove, reached some low dunes and threw ourselves behind them. Mukhtar moved out of the shadows as stealthily as a panther and rolled cleanly into place beside us. ‘The police!’ he spat, glancing suspiciously at David. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A friend,’ I said. ‘He’s coming with us.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Listen. If we stay here we’re going to be mincemeat. When I say go, we pull out skirmishing and run for it. Whatever happens,
we meet at the camels.’

  ‘You stay with me, David,’ I said.

  ‘Go!’ Mukhtar yelled, and there was a whump of fire from the pines. I fired three or four rounds at the palmeries, and the sharp tang of cordite filled my nostrils. My cousins pulled out in pairs with the oiled discipline of trained soldiers, one covering, the other moving fast, rolling and firing while his partner moved. David and I just got up and dashed helter-skelter for the camels, hugging the shadows. Answering drumfire sizzled out of the palmeries and David screamed and fell, rolling into the sand. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot.

  ‘Move, you city pipsqueak!’ Ahmad bawled in front of me.

  ‘He’s hit!’ I shouted, jogging back towards him, while more fire crackled out of the darkness. I didn’t stop to examine his wound — there just wasn’t time. I picked him up in a fireman’s lift and charged after the others. Out of the corner of my eye I made out figures running from the palms, firing as they came. Ahmad turned, squared his massive chest and sank down on one knee. ‘Go!’ he snapped, and as I dashed past a spear of fire stabbed out of his rifle-muzzle with a deafening whap. ‘Gotchar I heard him grunt as he clicked the bolt. We were at the camels. Ghanim had couched them expertly, ready for a quick exit. As I laid David’s body down nearby I heard rounds crumping into the sand and whizzing over our heads. ‘Here they come!’ Ahmad yelled from behind, dropping on one knee again in the cover of a dune, and snapping off shot after shot. ‘Got another of the bastards!’ I heard him yell.

  ‘Quick!’ I hissed to Mansur, gesturing at David’s inert body. ‘Help me get him on the camel!’

  Mansur’s dull eye blinked at me balefully. ‘Too late for that, Omar,’ he said, ‘God have mercy on him.’

  I suppose I’d known it all along, really. I’d felt the blood soaking my jibba, far too much for a light wound. Carrying his body those few hundred yards had been a last tribute to my friendship with Doc. I laid David’s body out, and only then did it hit me — the vision I’d had during the Shining of a tall, blond young man lying dead in the sand. A bullet — probably a dum-dum —had holed his lungs and penetrated his heart. His shirt was a pulp of blood. I closed his eyes with my finger and thumb, shaking with grief and anger — first Ronnie, then Doc, now David, I thought.