The Ghost Reapers

by Jackie Ferris

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alistair closed his eyes, picturing the scene in Abdul’s shop. Abdul would be certain he had the upper hand, because Akhoum had favoured him. Momentarily a lingering wisp of guilt for a daughter he barely knew had interfered with his strategy, but now it was under control. Akhoum was a fool just like Abdul. Anyone who gave their allegiance to an elderly group of men was crazy. They were not the only idiots. The Reformers were a joke, just like Hawwa. No one believed they were reformers any more.

  He rubbed his eyes, then slowly unlocked his desk drawer and took out a rarely used mobile. There were three people he had to call: the members of the executive board of Nommo.

  Everything was silent, except for the water cascading from Sheik Amir’s fountain. Soon his wife would return from her shopping trip and he would feign interest in her latest designer purchases. Carefully, he placed the glass of mint tea on the brass table, then leant back into the soft cushions of the sofa and closed his eyes.

  The ringing of his phone made him start. He pressed “receive”.

  “I was under the impression that the security breach could be dealt with at a local level. It is my first and last mistake.” Alistair’s clipped New England tone resonated in his ear.

  In the Arabian courtyard the fountain of water continued to play its refreshing tune as Amir listened.

  “Abdul has forgotten that religion is a smokescreen to keep the secret safe; that’s why Hawwa was created.” Alistair laughed. “Time to get rid of the dead wood; it is madness trying to keep the two organisations operational. Hawwa should have disappeared when Marcos was jailed.”

  “One can only have an allegiance to one cause. It is written that we will abide by the sacred trust handed to us from our ancestors.” The Sheik heard his wife opening the door into the courtyard.

  “Have you told Zach?”

  “I called you first.”

  “Good.” He smiled at his wife, who waved large designer bags in his direction.

  “My plane is fuelling, ready for Cairo; naturally I require your men to be in place when I get there.”

  “Done. I want everything destroyed. Make it look like a terrorist strike. Contact me again once the deed is done.”

  “You can depend on it.” Alistair inhaled deeply as he clicked off. Amir had reacted exactly as he expected. Zach would be a different proposition.

  He pressed numbers on the phone.

  The Zachariah household were an hour into a Jewish family celebration. The first course had only just been cleared. Zach’s oldest son had passed his driving test on his fourth attempt, and his mother was behaving as if he was a Nobel Prize winner.

  For once, the phone was a welcome distraction.

  “Zach, don’t answer it, this is Abe’s big day. I won’t let you spoil it.”

  He offered her a pained smile. “Man cannot live by bread alone.” He glanced at the uneaten food then bowed to his seated guests. “If you will excuse me, I have a work matter to address.” It was not a question. He turned away from the table and headed towards his study.

  The book-lined walls offered him instant refuge.

  He flopped into his green leather wing-back chair, then put his feet on the desk and pressed answer: “Alistair, what is wrong?”

  “Au contraire, it’s Endgame.”

  “Is it possible that finally the ultimate piece of evidence will be destroyed?” Zach stroked his chin trying to resist the relief surging through him.

  “Not quite, there is still the Shroud.”

  “The Catholics discredited it almost a thousand years ago. They did it again thirty years ago, when it was carbon-dated to the Middle Ages. Only fools and crystal skull gazers think it is older.”

  “I can’t argue with that; this is the final act, once this evidence is destroyed, everything is secure.”

  He opened the blind. Below him he could see the Golden Dome and fragments of the Temple Wall. “You surprise me, Alistair; nothing is ever secure.”

  “Without proof, everything is conjecture. The evidence that will destroy us will come from the future; new technology will unearth the past. When that happens, there is nothing we can do.”

  “When that happens, the past won’t matter; besides, some might say that day is already here.”

  “It is our duty to ensure that no ghosts resurface from our unwritten past.”

  Zach resisted the temptation to ask why; instead he let him drone on.

  “I am taking care of it. Abdul wants Francisco followed. When Francisco uncovers the evidence, I will destroy it and everyone associated with it. It will be the biggest so-called terrorist attack on Egyptian soil in peace time. Its knock-on effects will intensify the traditional Arab-Israeli hostilities. It will take people’s minds off anything else.”

  “It was ever thus.” Zach swallowed hard. “I take it the Sheik is aware of this?”

  “It is a matter of protocol; our past came out of Egypt.”

  “Not strictly true, Alistair. Our real past came out of Africa.”

  “Exactly why I need to call the Cardinal.”

  “Idris would appreciate it. Don’t mess up, Alistair; our past is Africa, Egypt is part of Africa. Africa bore the secret.” Zach put the phone down and glanced in the mirror. His long, narrow face showed the strain of the passing years; at forty-three, he looked older. His red hair was turning grey. Once, his life had held so much hope, now his hope was invested in his children, who placed their hope in material gain. It was not a future he had envisioned

  Idris was in his office, watching a video that a worker had taken of the African village where Husani lived, as one of his mobiles buzzed. Although he was expecting the call he waited, unable to take his eyes off the young boy with his stick-like arms and legs waving at the camera. Id could not help smiling back: the name Husani meant “handsome” in Egyptian; in other Arab countries it meant “of today”. Husani was both.

  He dragged his eyes away from him to the mobile which continued to buzz angrily on the desk.

  “Alistair, I take it you are not calling about the weather?”

  “Endgame. We are about to gather the final piece of evidence.”

  Idris clenched his fist so hard that the skin around his darkened knuckles lightened. “The nature of evidence means it is constantly changing. I take it I am the last to be informed?”

  “Was it not Jesus who said the first shall be last?”

  “Mathew, Mark and Luke, all of whom were Greek, reported that he did. The best estimate has them writing their stories forty-plus years after his crucifixion. The worst makes it a century or more later.”

  “Don’t take it personally; the Sheik expects to be informed first.”

  “I am not complaining. The Church will be relieved that finally the secret will be safe. Thanks to carbon dating, the Vatican is no longer concerned about the Shroud. I assume that, since Endgame is in your capable hands, everything will run smoothly?”

  “My plane is being prepared as we speak. Once I reach Cairo I intend to give Abdul some rope.”

  “No doubt to hang himself?”

  “There can be no survivors. Hawwa is an anachronism which belongs to the past.”

  “Relics have their uses; ask a Jew or Christian.”

  “And their dangers. I prefer not to live with danger.”

  “Then I must concur with your wisdom.” Id’s gaze strayed to the video taken a couple of weeks earlier. The children were crouched on their hunkers, watching seeds grow.

  Alistair smiled; “I will call you when it is over.”

  “I will be waiting.” He picked up a pen and drew a circle, then pulled a face. The problem with circles was that you never knew where they started or ended.

  He glanced again at the video: Husani was waving at him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Three weeks earlier in the sub-Sahara

  The blistering heat scorched sores into the earth. The barren landscape was broken by a few palm huts, and
the skeleton outlines of a small number of dead trees that refused to lie down. Ordinarily, Zach would not have come. Informal meetings with fellow members of Nommo were frowned upon, but Zach was fed up with not making a difference. Ostensibly, his life was blessed. His wife was a homemaker who doted on their sons and daughter. He was a feted Rabbi.

  Once, his work as a hydrologist, enhancing Israel’s desert soil, had kept him busy. But that had changed several years ago when he had been initiated into Nommo.

  The sacred brotherhood of Nommo was his birthright and his downfall. Now everything he did was insignificant. Idris had offered him a chance to make a difference. It was why he was in Africa and why they were sitting, enjoying a beer after a hard day’s work.

  “Thank you, Zach.” Id’s words broke into Zach’s thoughts.

  “It’s me who should thank you. It’s a very long time since I felt useful.”

  Id wiped the foamy beer from his lips. “The children make me feel useful every day I am here. I am a selfish man.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you created this orphanage. You gave these children hope.”

  He shook his head. “They have seen horrific things; their parents killed, their brothers and sisters tortured and raped in front of them. They escaped, but they cannot escape their memories. You will hear their cries tonight. I can control what happens to them in the daytime.” He ran his hands down his face. “I cannot control their dreams, and nor can they.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Thomas.”

  “Id, I am called Id here. I am a man first, not a cardinal.”

  “Sorry, Id, you have done wonders here. It’s obvious the kids love and respect you.”

  “They will love you too when the fresh corn comes. It means a lot.”

  “I just did my job.”

  “You broke the rules. We are not supposed to meet outside of Nommo.”

  Zach shook his head. “Sometimes I think Nommo is ridiculous. I had completed my first degree in engineering, specialising in hydrology, when my father told me about Nommo. I was not a religious person, but whatever beliefs I did have were destroyed with the Nommo story. He made it worse when he told me I had to become a Rabbi.” He gave a wry smile, then took a swig of beer. “Imagine: a secret that will destroy religion, and yet we, the holders of the secret, have to pretend to be religious.” He took another swig. “I have not told my son about Nommo yet, maybe I never…”

  An eerie shriek interrupted him.

  Id raised his head. “Bats: they keep some of the mosquitos away. Thank goodness.” He wiped his mouth with his arm. “It must be hard to have to pass on the knowledge to your son. I am not sure I could do it. The knowledge I was given is a burden. The Church chose me because I was a black African.”

  His laughter was laced with irony. “In a few sentences they destroyed me. I was aware of the Constantine factor. I knew he fashioned the basis of the Christian faith as we know it today, but underneath Constantine was Jesus.

  “I was one of those people who believed in the original ideas of Christ. I believed his resurrection was of the spirit, not the body. Why would anyone want their body to be resurrected? The idea is absurd. What year would you choose to ensure its prime state?” He laughed. “The Church chose me for Nommo because I had two big ticks on my career sheet. I was black, and I was a sceptic.

  “I did some digging about what really happened. I thought the cover-up began two thousand years ago, with four Greek writers and their cover story, now known as the New Testament. Their Greek cultural background, spiced with Homer’s poems, overflowed with the spirits of gods entering people. It made it acceptable for living and dead people to become gods. Their versions of Jesus’ life were a mêlée of Greek cultural beliefs, mixed with the Jewish need for a saviour to release them from Roman oppression.

  “At the time of writing they were oblivious to its huge impact on future generations.

  “Without the intervention of Constantine, two centuries later, their stories would have remained peripheral.”

  Zach held up his bottle. “Do you want another? I need one if we are going to play truth games.”

  “In the carton next to the office.” He pointed towards the palm hut. “We keep it under the leaves; it’s cooler. Be careful of the spiders and snakes. Both are lethal: only the rats are safe - we don’t have rabies here, thank God.”

  Zach strolled over to the pile of leaves, looking more confident than he felt. He leant down warily and pushed his arm through the foliage. His hand locked on to the necks of two bottles. He pulled them out quickly.

  “Success.” He handed one to Id, then looked around a little foolishly. “How do you open them?”

  Id flashed him a smile. “Use your teeth.”

  “Seriously?” Zach’s eyes widened as Id laughed.

  “We may be in the back of beyond but I am no Indiana Jones.” He pulled out an opener from his khaki trouser pocket, then rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I will need to get rid of this before I go back to Rome.”

  “It was the exact opposite for me.”

  “What was? I don’t think you mean the stubble.” He grinned as he handed Zach the opener.

  “My reaction when I was told the truth. I was born into the Jewish religion but I was not what one might call religious. My father was a respected Rabbi, I was his wayward son, just like my own son is now.”

  Zach pulled a face as he took a swig of warm beer. “Looking at my father is like looking in a mirror at an older me.” He shook his head. “I don’t like what I see.” He sighed. “Ignore me. How did I get on to this? What was I saying before that?”

  “You were talking about how you felt when your father told you about Nommo.”

  “It was like being hit by a tank. I was a hydrologist. People were predicting great things. I could have made a difference. The Middle East is a sea of sand and oil. I could have made living waters flow again. My dad made it worse by telling me I had to study the scriptures. I had to understand the need for tradition. Crazy or what? Why do we have to profess to believe in a faith we know is baseless?

  What Nommo says, I do. Funny, when I was doing my post-grad research, I never expected to end up a puppet.”

  “I know what you mean. It rips me apart every time I think about it.”

  “Are you kidding me? You seem so composed and sure of what you are doing.”

  “I am black. Discrimination is almost as old as the Bible. According to the Old Testament, Abel sacrificed a newly killed lamb whilst his brother offered freshly gathered crops to God. God’s wrath at Cain’s meagre offering culminated in Cain murdering his brother in a fit of jealous rage. Infuriated, God expelled Cain from the fallen land of his parents, Adam and Eve, then marked him to guarantee his enduring humiliation.”

  Zach took another swig of beer, wondering where Id was going with this.

  “Officially, Syriac Christians were the first to label black skin the Mark of Cain. Later the Armenians in the fifth century wrote of Cain’s black face in the Adam book. “The Church of Latter Day Saints” used the Mark of Cain to prevent Africans from becoming priests two hundred years ago. In case you have any doubts for many people, black is synonymous with bad.”

  Id stood up and stretched, like he was trying to outgrow his skin. “Rome is a phoney castle in the air, floating on lies.

  What happens here matters. I was raised not far from here. I watched my mother and sisters raped by militia. My only hope was the Church. I thought it was my salvation.” He laughed, then raised his head. “The stars are amazing. Sometimes, when I am out here looking up at them, I wonder if Nommo really existed. Silly really, whatever came here wasn’t human. Beings beyond our dimension are beyond our comprehension. We are limited by our human framework; we can’t think outside our limits. The Visitation was one of the truly great things to happen to the human race. Why have we systematically ignored it, to create a maelstrom of lies in its place? Each lie begets new lies.”

  “What
are you saying?”

  “Id, help!”

  Id looked across at the young boy running from the shack.

  “Id, Id, I had a bad dream, the dead people were everywhere, like ghosts.”

  Id ruffled his black curly head. “Like ghosts, eh? School will not teach you this, nor will the internet, but you must learn to reap the harvest of ghosts.”

  Husani stared at him, bemused. “I was scared; I can’t reap anything from ghosts. They are not like the crops, they are dead. A dead person can’t do anything.”

  “Not true, Husani, dead people impact on our lives.”

  He looked at the boy’s blank face. “One day, when you are older, I hope you think of me and remember my words.”

  “I will always remember you, Id; you are like my father and my mother.”

  “Always is a long time; for now, concentrate on sleep. Go back to bed.” He patted him on the back, then gave him a gentle shove.

  Zach waited until Husani was in the shack, then pointed towards it. “These kids deserve a chance.”

  “Tell me about it. Our greatest civilisation was born in Africa, not Egypt. The Kemmui, who we now call Ancient Egyptians, called it Af-Rui-Ka; it means ‘beginnings’, or ‘birthplace’. Isn’t it time the world recognised it?”

  Id’s question rang around the trees as Zach stood up. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

  “I want to make a difference. Isn’t it our duty to let the world know what is really out there, or at least what we know? People can make their own judgements. Our choices were taken from us because no one knows the truth.”

  Zach tilted his head to the stars. “We can’t tell the truth.”

  Id shook his head. “Much as I would like to think I could, I know I can’t; but there is a way.” He looked at Zach, trying to decide something. “If I told you I had a plan, would you go along with it?”

  Zach grinned. “I have been making do since I was initiated into Nommo. If you have a plan, count me in.”