London, sixteen days later
Adil ran, shadowlike, through the smoky streets of London. His meeting with the Caliph had proved as frustrating as the one with the Archbishop. The two men were in the upper echelons of Hawwa because they thought the same: preserve religion, the precursor of power and money. The Reformers were not restricted by belief. Their motto was different: power lies in politics and economics, not religion.
He had thought of little else since he had left Port Said, eight days ago. He always came to the same conclusion: times were changing. The British were limbering up to challenge Napoleon’s supremacy; they had to do something after losing the new lands of America. America held great promise; it was the land of the future. There were no boundaries in the new land, soon it would be his new home.
He pulled his cloak tight around his face as the streets grew narrower and darker. The smell of human shit, mingling with stale smoke and burnt chestnuts, almost choked him.
Finally, he stopped outside a weathered oak door with a large copper knocker, turned green with age. He struck it five times before being greeted by a portly man in grey woollen breeches and a stained linen shirt. His powdered wig was in keeping with the beginning of the eighteenth century, not the end.
The man scratched his nose as he ushered Adil inside. “Master’s expecting you.”
Adil followed him up the narrow candlelit stairs into an austere room devoid of paintings and tapestries. In the far corner, a fire struggled for breath; beside it, a tall man with blonde hair unfettered by wigs stood upright.
Adil bowed. “Sir Langford, I am grateful that you could see me. I took the fastest ship from Port Said.”
“I must confess your earnest approach intrigues me. What news of the Caliph?”
“He stagnates in a pit of complacency. Hawwa is married to a silky ice queen born from a runnel of lies. It will melt in the thaw of a new intelligentsia. I cannot be party to it.”
“The news of the Rosetta Stone has shrouded this country in a fog of speculation for almost two weeks. What stories do you bring that are new?”
“Those that come from the future. As it draws nearer, people will expect to uncover hieroglyphics explaining the Great Pyramid’s construction. When they do not find them, they will hunt for new stones with new codes. Their hunger will not be satiated by the Rosetta Stone.”
“You are a supporter of Hawwa, not the Reformers; why do you say such things?”
“Hawwa is locked in by a secret mummified in the bonds of religion. I can no longer be party to it.”
“But you seek refuge in the Reformers?”
“I seek sanity, not sanctuary.”
“Then where is your salvation?”
“In the future. Religion is a toxic sponge; it no longer holds the answers to the past.”
Sir Langford shook his head. “It never did.”
“Exactly, and it is why I am here. We must take the Rosetta Stone. It did not originate in Rashid or Rosetta, as you westerners call it. It came from Sais, the burial place of Osiris, the god of the Afterlife. I take an odd sort of solace in the fact that Osiris is now giving birth to the future of the Reformers. I need hardly tell you that the Egyptians portrayed Osiris as green. Some might say it was a nod to Nommo.”
“Some might.” Sir Langford nodded. “I admire your ambition. Plans are already afoot to take the Stone, once the British troops overcome Napoleon. We cannot change its contents, but we can protect its implications.”
Adil nodded. “We know there are other stones which will reveal more of the real Egyptian past.”
“Indeed we do; the name Reformers was no accident. Like Nelson, we will be responsible for the biggest changes in history, whilst keeping the secret.”
“Nelson has yet to prove himself.”
“So do we, but we are the future. We spend too much time looking into a past that is not ours. You did well, Adil, to come here. You will be rewarded. The future is about politics and enterprise; the East India Company has proved it. We are the future, Adil, not Hawwa. Industry and politics needs us to preserve the future. The future has nothing to do with religion.”
Sir Langford’s words echoed in Adil’s ears as he stepped into the stinking London street. For the first time in his life he wondered if he was right.
Chapter Eleven
New York: December 1st, 1867
The four men sat on opposite sides of the polished maple table. The two members of Hawwa were older, with greying hair, which they wore unfashionably long. They stared into the eyes of the two Reformers, who sported a short-cropped style.
The American Civil War had ended two years earlier, on May 9th, 1865. Slavery was outlawed, and America was without doubt the land of the free. The four men facing each other felt the shackles of history tightening around them. Not only were they fighting the brave new world of the future, but in the previous ten years Darwin had released his Origin of Species. Three months earlier, on the 14th September, Karl Marx had published Das Kapital, which threatened the political balance throughout the world.
Mark Twain’s recent observations of a decaying Jerusalem were also telegraphing their way across the globe. His explosive snippets were an advance publicity stunt for his forthcoming book, Innocents Abroad.
James Cougar read one of Twain’s extracts aloud as the others listened: “It seems to me that all the races and colours and tongues of the earth must be represented among the fourteen thousand souls that dwell in Jerusalem. Rags, wretchedness, poverty and dirt: those signs and symbols indicate the presence of Moslem rule more surely than the crescent flag abounds.”
He looked up from the manuscript, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Gentlemen, I need hardly tell you how inflammatory these words are. The world is reporting them. It pits Muslim against Jew and Christian.”
Abe Biden looked across from the copy of the New York Tribune. “I must confess that, as a Reformer, the state of religion concerns me less than the recent publications of The Origin of Species and Das Kapital.”
Stephen O’Brien shook his head. “Darwin’s damned book threatens the Adam and Eve story. If people believe we didn’t come out of the Garden of Eden, everything that is written in the Bible could tumble.”
Mohammed Kabul laughed. “Do you realise what you’ve said?”
Stephen grinned back at him. “I know the religious stuff is nonsense, but we have been wedded to it in Hawwa for three thousand years. It’s not just about religion; it’s about decent human values.”
“Human values born out of lies; we are supposed to be the enlightened members of our respective organisations, not bigots. Twain has highlighted a powder-keg which can only get worse; the rise of Jewish literature, their emancipation in England, the election of Jews to the American senate. Need I go on? It is only a matter of time until the Jews want to claim Jerusalem for themselves. It will pit religions against each other, as it did during the Crusades. The Shroud came out of that debacle, recovered from an Arab culture to which it meant nothing. Much worse could surface this time. We must respond now to stop it.”
“How?” Stephen’s face was clouded with confusion as he looked at Mohammed.
“Neither Hawwa nor the Reformers can stop it. We have too many conflicting priorities. Do we focus on trying to shore up the Bible, or try to stop the religious wars that will surely come?”
Mohammed paused, enjoying the silence before answering. “Neither of our groups is capable of doing either.”
“We have to do something.” Abe banged his fist on the table.
“How can we? We are fighting amongst each other, even though our goal of keeping the secret is the same.” Mohammed raised an eyebrow.
James replaced his glasses and blinked; his new lenses were out of focus. “I agree with you, Mohammed. Hawwa and the Reformers can no longer be expected to keep the secret; they have too many vested interests. I called you here for that reason. Wealthy people are talking about Darwin and Marx. They are a
fraid; these new-fangled ideas are a threat to the status quo. I know I can get backing to form a super-organisation that will control Hawwa and the Reformers.”
Abe looked doubtful as he shook his head. “Even if you could, neither will relinquish power.”
“Perhaps not, but we must use our persuasive powers to change their minds or history and the future will prove their undoing. The Vatican is in turmoil; Darwin’s theories have flawed them. They are afraid that evolution will lead to a godly devolution. If the Vatican and Rabbis support us, Hawwa will have little option but to follow.”
Abe pulled a face. “Perhaps you have a point. The Jews are also in a state of flux. Their desire to establish Jerusalem as their beating heart means that they will sell their soul to politics and the greenback.” He tapped his index finger on the table.
“That concerns me enormously. We know the Reformers will not support their actions, because it threatens the Muslim brotherhood. They may not like the religious fervour of Hawwa, but it is preferable to threatening the status quo. We need a group to transcend the rivalry of Hawwa and the Reformers if the secret is to remain hidden; of late we have become too partisan. We must bring religions, economists and politics together. We can only do this if we create a new group.”
“What you say makes sense, James, but it is an impossible task.”
“In the past, I would have agreed, Mohammed, but times have changed and we must move with them. The secret is power, because people will invest in it to preserve a past they know. It doesn’t matter what the secret is, only what it does.”
“Does?” Stephen threw him a sceptical look.
“The secret binds the status quo together. Our value system depends upon it. It is like a great primeval soup, from which all power comes. The Reformers knew it when they broke away from Hawwa during the Reformation; unfortunately they could not predict the advances we have made in the last fifty years. You must see that you can’t keep up?” James looked at Abe and Mohammed, searching for answers. Their blank looks provoked him to add. “The secret was always about the retention and amassing of power. The Egyptians understood that. Nefertiti did not; she thought it was about truth. Revealing the secret will tilt the balance and destroy us all. Hawwa and the Reformers are losing power and losing control. We need another organisation to control them, to ensure the secret remains hidden.”
The four men appraised each other, trying to assess the others’ thoughts. It was Muhammad who broke the silence. “Do you really think you have the backing for such a move?”
James nodded. “I know I do. I have already spoken with the Vatican and leading rabbis and caliphs in Hawwa. They are aware that Hawwa is in its death throes. The Reformers don’t know which way to turn in this new age of enlightenment. If the secret is to remain hidden, we must have an organisation which represents this new industrial age; it will sweep away the old beliefs. Economists and politicians will back us, because they do not want Marx and Darwin’s beliefs to become mainstream and overthrow the existing order but they know that order must modernise.
Naturally, as founding members, our personal fortunes will be tripled overnight. The advantages far outweigh the negatives.”
They considered this.
“Do you have a name for this new organisation?” Abe was moving on to the new house he would build in the Hamptons.
“I would have thought that that was obvious: we will call it Nommo.”
Chapter Twelve
Newcastle, 27th March 2013: Wednesday morning
The greyness of the day splattered through the clouds into rain. The heavy downpour pockmarked her black umbrella as Jazz ran up the steps of the Hancock Museum. Unable to bear being in the flat a moment longer, she had chosen the museum because she needed to connect with something Egyptian – by chance there was a retrospective cinematic exhibition of Carter’s discovery in the Valley of the Kings. She wanted to see if anything Francisco had said made sense. She wasn’t even sure he was her step-brother. He claimed they had met in London. She recognised his eyes – or was that fanciful? Was the letter even written by her father? Francisco could be anyone. Then why come? Why now? He was a ghost from a past she didn’t know she had. Yet the letter was compelling, as were Francisco’s arguments.
Last night, unable to sleep, she had Googled Nommo. Not only did Francisco Santos work for them, but he was involved in researching dark matter. Tick, tick for accuracy. By sifting through old editions of the New York Times, she had uncovered a brief obituary for Marcos Santos, an Alzheimer suffer who had died after a long and distressing cancer illness.
To that extent, Francisco’s stories stacked up. What didn’t were the claims about Nefertiti, Tutankhamun and the secret organisation. What had her father called them? The Ghost Stealers? Naturally she had Googled Ghost Stealers. What came up was a screed of links to ghost stories but nothing about an organisation. Given its secrecy, Jazz hadn’t expected to find it. The idea of Muslims, Jews and Christians working together to keep a secret wasn’t just ludicrous, it was impossible.
Jazz had established that Nefertiti was a powerful woman, who had co-ruled with her husband over one of the most turbulent and secretive periods in Ancient Egypt, and had then mysteriously disappeared. Throughout the centuries, various inconclusive claims about uncovering her mummy had been made.
Tutankhamun, more famous in death than life, began life as Tutankhaten, a devoted follower of the god Aten. His name was changed to Tutankhamun following his father’s death. The sickly young boy was no threat to the high priests, who destroyed the new capital, Amarna, and forcibly escorted Tut back to Thebes. His lack-lustre reign had lasted a little over ten years. Even his death chamber was a hurriedly arranged affair precipitated by the young king’s sudden death. Bizarrely, just as her father had claimed, Tut’s tomb had been broken into in antiquity. Nothing had been stolen, but, inexplicably, the tomb raiders went to the trouble of re-plastering the entrance. Whatever they had in mind, robbery was not part of it.
“May I see your ticket, please?” The young man with square-framed glasses held out his hand.
She handed him the ticket and asked, “Is the Howard Carter film showing yet?”
He nodded. “Go straight through. It’s on a loop; it’s only about five minutes. You can see it on YouTube but the share-holders are trying to promote Egypt, and Tut’s always a best seller.”
She headed off in the direction he’d suggested. The flickering black and white film was showing on a small Android screen. She watched a lot of old men wearing fez hats, pointing at things she could not see.
An old man with a Zimmer frame nudged her. “Have you finished, luv? I came here specially to see that. My da was in the First World War, stationed in Egypt. He always talked about the sand and those bloody great triangles.”
Jazz smiled as she moved on, looking briefly at the Egyptian exhibitions. They were mostly pottery or obscure bits of stone, which the explanations called steles. She stopped at a small statue of the goddess Isis holding her baby son Horus. The likeness to the more famous Virgin and Child statue was staggering.
Her father had talked about patterns. She was still making the connections as a bleep registered an email on her phone. She pressed open:
“Jazz will fail,
Dad’s in jail.”
Her heart ricocheted off her ribs. No one else knew the rhyme which had tormented her childhood, no one except her child psychologist, who’d been chosen by her mother, prior to her banishment to boarding school. She had told the psychologist about the rhyme because it was what she wanted to hear. She was around sixty then, and more interested in compiling papers for her research study on disturbed children than in Jazz. She was probably dead now. Even if she was alive, she did not know her email, nor would she have written it. Someone had retrieved her notes a very long time ago.
She glanced around the exhibition room, which was devoid of people, then hurried out into the grey Newcastle skies. As she pulled her umbrella ope
n, another email came in.
“A beggar who dresses like a king is not a king.
If a fool should say the ring is a queen’s, does it make it so?”
Jazz remembered the ring Francisco had shown her. She looked at the email address: [email protected].
As she read the email again, another dropped into her inbox. It was from Hassid.
“Hi, Jazz,
Hope you don’t mind me contacting you like this, but Francisco gave me your email. Cara and I are so excited you are coming. Can’t wait until tomorrow; I will be at the Meeting Point in Cairo Arrivals.
See you then,
Hassid.”
Jazz stared at the email. He sounded so normal. She read it again, then went to reopen the other one. It was not there. She opened Trash – nothing! She rubbed her eyes; wondering if she had dreamt it. Perhaps she had dreamt Francisco too, but the email from Hassid was real enough. He was expecting her in Cairo tomorrow. Until now she had not made up her mind if she would go. She had now.
Chapter Thirteen
New York: 27th March, Wednesday afternoon
The office was silent except for the quiet hum from a computer. Normally, the desk opposite Dale was occupied from seven until seven. Today it was empty.
Dale, who was not as industrious as his absent colleague, had spent most of the day playing games on his computer. His head wasn’t in his research. He was thinking about Francisco.
He glanced again at the otherwise empty parking lot where his Lotus sat as forlorn as his computer. According to “sky tracker”, Francisco had landed at JFK almost three hours ago, making him at least forty minutes late. He picked up the phone to call Alistair.
Alistair was taking refuge in the garden, pruning his roses. He was escaping his wife who was planning a Christmas trip to the Caribbean. She was concerned that the more exclusive hotels were already booked. He could not think of anything worse than hot sun and lobster at Christmas. To take his mind off it, he was grafting a perfumed rose to one of his favourite Queen Elizabeth specimens. The mobile vibrating in his corduroy gardening trousers was an unwelcome distraction. He pressed the green button.
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