The Seventh Scroll

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Please don’t let anything happen to her,’ he spoke aloud, but he did not know to whom his plea was addressed. He thought of turning back and making her stay with him, but he had no rights in the matter, and he knew she would not obey him. Short of physical force, there was no way he could impose his will upon her. He had to let her go.

  ‘But I don’t like it one little bit,’ he reaffirmed.

  His private secretary, and the other men who worked for him, knew exactly what he expected of them. Everything was as he required it. Gotthold von Schiller looked around the interior of the Quonset hut with approval. Helm had done well in the time that he had been given to prepare the base for his boss’s arrival.

  His own private quarters occupied half the long portable building. They were spartan, but sterilely clean and neat. His clothes hung in the cupboard and his cosmetics and medicines were set out in the bathroom cabinet. His private kitchen was fully equipped and stocked with provisions. His own Chinese chef had flown out in the Falcon with him, bringing everything with him that he needed to provide the meals that his master demanded.

  Von Schiller was a vegetarian, a non-smoker and a teetotaller. Twenty years ago he had been a famous trencherman who loved the hearty food of the Black Forest, the wines of the Rhine valley and the rich dark tobaccos of Cuba. In those days he had been obese, with rolls of chin sagging over his collar. Now, despite his age, he was as lean and fit and vital as a racing greyhound.

  In the autumn of his life, the pleasures were of the mind and the emotions, more than of the physical senses. He placed a higher value on inanimate objects than on living creatures, either human or animal. A piece of stone carved by masons who had been dead for thousands of years could excite him more than the soft warm body of the most lovely young woman. He loved order and control. Power over men and events sustained him more than did the taste of food. Power and the possession of beautiful and unique objects were his passions, now that his body was running down and his animal appetites were losing their zest.

  Every item of all that vast and priceless collection of ancient treasures that he had already assembled had been discovered by other men. This was his chance, his very last chance to make his own discovery, to break the seals on the door of a Pharaoh’s tomb and be the first man in four thousand years to gaze upon the contents. Perhaps that was his real hope for immortality, and there was no price in gold and human life he was not fully prepared to pay for it. Already men had died in this passion of his, and he cared not that there would be other sacrifices. No price was too high.

  He checked his image in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall opposite his bed. He smoothed the thick, coarse, dark hair. Of course it was dyed, but that was one of his few remaining conceits. Then he crossed the uncarpeted wooden floor of his own quarters, and opened the door into the long conference room which would be his headquarters over the days to come.

  The persons seated there rose to their feet immediately, their attitudes servile and their expressions obsequious. Von Schiller strode to the head of the long table and stepped up on to the block of wood covered with carpeting that his private secretary had placed there for him. This block went everywhere with him. It was nine inches high. From this elevation von Schiller looked down upon the men and one woman who waited for him. He looked them over unhurriedly, letting them stand a while. From the vantage point of his block, he was taller than any of them.

  First he looked at Helm. The Texan had worked for him for over a decade. Completely reliable, he was strong both physically and mentally and would follow orders without question or qualms. Von Schiller had come to rely on him. He could send him anywhere in the world, from Zaïre to Queensland, from the Arctic Circle to the steaming equatorial forests, and Helm would get the job done with the minimum of fuss and with very few unpleasant consequences. He was ruthless but discreet, and like a good hunting dog he knew his master.

  From Helm he looked at the woman. Utte Kemper was his private secretary. She ordered and directed the details of his life, from his food to his block, from his medicine to his social calendar, No man or woman was ever received into his presence without her prior arrangement. She was also his communications expert. The mass of electronic equipment that occupied one wall of the hut was her preserve. Utte was able to find her way through the ether with the infallible instinct of a homing pigeon. From the archaic art of the keyboard and Morse code to burst transmissions and random switching he had never known another person, male or female, who could match her wizardry. She was at that perfect age for a woman, forty, slim and blonde, with slanting green eyes over high cheekbones, resembling the young Dietrich.

  Von Schiller’s own wife, Ingemar, had been an invalid for the last twenty years, and Utte Kemper had stepped into the void she had left in his life. Yet she was more than either secretary or wife to him.

  When he had first met Utte, she had been holding a very senior position in the technical section of the German national telecommunications network, and moonlighting as a pornographic actress – not for the money but for love of the job. Copies of the videos she had made at that time were amongst von Schiller’s most precious possessions, after his collection of Egyptian antiquities. Like Helm, she had no qualms. There was nothing she would not do to him, or allow him to do to her, to fulfil his most bizarre fantasies. When he watched her videos and she did some of these things to him, she was the only woman who could still bring him to orgasm. Yet even this happened less frequently with every month that passed, and each time the spasms of sexual release she could evoke from his aging body were less intense.

  Utte had her recording equipment set up before her on the table. It was part of her multifarious duties to keep accurate and complete records of every meeting and conversation. Then von Schiller looked past these two trusted employees to the two other men standing at the table.

  Colonel Nogo he had met for the first time that morning, as he stepped down from the Jet Ranger helicopter that had flown them down from Addis Ababa to the base camp here on the summit of the escarpment of the Nile gorge. He knew very little about him, except that Helm had selected him, and was so far satisfied with his performance. Von Schiller himself was not equally impressed. There had already been some bungling. Nogo had allowed Quenton-Harper and the Egyptian woman to slip through his clutches. After a lifetime of operating in Africa, von Schiller placed little trust or store in blacks and preferred to work with Europeans. However, he realized that for the time being Nogo’s services were indispensable. He was, after all, the military commander of the southern Gojam. No doubt once he had served his purpose he could be taken care of. Helm would see to that. He would not have to bother himself with the details.

  Von Schiller looked now at the last man at the table. Here was another who was indispensable for the time being. Nahoot Guddabi was the one who had brought the existence of the seventh scroll to his attention. Apparently some English author had written a fictionalized version of the scrolls, but von Schiller never read fiction of any sort, either in German or in any of the four foreign languages in which he was fluent. Without Nahoot bringing the existence of the Taita scrolls to his notice, he might have overlooked this opportunity of his lifetime.

  The Egyptian had come to him as soon as the original translation of the scrolls had been completed by Duraid Al Simma, and the existence of an unrecorded Pharaoh and his tomb had been mooted. Since then they had been in constant contact, and when the time came that Al Simma and his wife had started to make too much headway with their investigations, von Schiller had employed Nahoot to get rid of them and to bring the seventh scroll to him.

  The scroll was now the shining star of his collection, safely housed with his other ancient treasures in the steel and concrete vaults below the Schloss in the mountains that was his private retreat, his Eagle’s Nest.

  Despite this, the choice of Nahoot to undertake the more sensitive work of ridding him of Al Simma and his wife had proved to be a mistake. He should
have sent a professional to take care of them, but Nahoot had argued that he was capable of seeing it through, and he had been well paid for the work that he had mismanaged so ineptly. He too would be disposable in time, but right now von Schiller still needed him.

  There was no question that Nahoot’s understanding of Egyptology and hieroglyphics was far in advance of von Schiller’s own. After all, Nahoot had spent most of his life studying them, while von Schiller was an amateur and only a comparatively recent enthusiast. Nahoot was able to read the scrolls and this new material that they had acquired as though they were letters from a friend, whereas von Schiller was obliged to puzzle over each symbol and resort frequently to his reference books. Even then, he was not capable of picking up the finer nuances of meaning in the text. Without Nahoot’s assistance he could not hope to solve the riddles which confronted him in the search for Mamose’s tomb.

  This was the team who were now assembled beneath him, waiting for him to start the proceedings. ‘Sit down, please, Fräulein Kemper,’ he said at last. ‘You too, gentlemen. Let us get started.’

  Von Schiller remained standing on his block at the head of the table. He enjoyed the feeling of superior height. His short stature had been a source of humiliation ever since his school-days when he had been nicknamed ‘Pippa’ by his peers.

  ‘Fräulein Kemper will be recording everything which is said here this afternoon. She will also issue each of you with a folder of documents which she will collect from you again at the end of this meeting. I want to make it very clear that none of this material will ever leave this room. It is of the most confidential nature, and belongs to me alone. I will take a most stringent view of any breach of this instruction.’

  As Utte handed out the folders, von Schiller looked at each recipient in turn. His expression made it clear what the penalty would be for any contravention of his instructions.

  Then von Schiller opened the dossier that lay on the tabletop in front of him. He stood over it, leaning forward on his bunched fists.

  ‘In your folders you will find copies of the Polaroid photographs that were recovered from Quenton-Harper’s camp. Please look at these now.’

  Each of them opened their own folder.

  ‘Since our arrival Dr Nahoot has had an opportunity to study these, and he is of the opinion that they are genuine, and that the stele in the photographs is an authentic artefect of ancient Egyptian origin, almost certainly dating from the Second Intermediate Period, circa 1790 BC. Is there anything you wish to add to that, Doctor?’

  ‘Thank you, Herr von Schiller.’ Nahoot smiled oleaginously, but his dark eyes were nervous. There was something cold and dispassionate about the old German that terrified him. He had displayed no emotion whatsoever as he ordered Nahoot to arrange the death of Duraid Al Simma and his wife. Nahoot knew that he would be equally unmoved if he were to order Nahoot’s own murder. He realized that he was riding the tiger’s back. ‘I would just like to qualify that statement. I said that the stele pictured in these prints appeared to be genuine. Of course, I would not be able to give you a definite opinion until I was able to examine the actual stone at first hand.’

  ‘I note your qualification,’ von Schiller nodded, ‘and we are assembled here to find the means to obtain the stele for your examination and verdict.’ He picked up the glossy print that Utte had made from the original that morning in the laboratory darkroom in the adjoining hut. Photography was not the least of her many talents and skills, and she had done a very competent job. The copies of the Polaroids that Helm had transmitted to him in Hamburg had been blurred and distorted, but still they had been sufficient to bring him rushing across the continents in all this haste. Now he held these clear likenesses in full colour, and his excitement threatened to suffocate him.

  While they were all silent, he caressed the print as lovingly as if it had been the actual object that it portrayed. If this were genuine, as he knew instinctively that it was, then it alone would be well worth the considerable cost in time and money and human life that he had already paid. It was a marvellous treasure, to match even the original seventh scroll which was already in his collection. The condition and state of preservation of the stele after four thousand years seemed to be extraordinary. He lusted for it as he had for few things in his long life. It required an effort to set aside this pervasive longing, and to apply his mind to the task ahead of him.

  ‘If, however, the stele is genuine, Doctor, can you tell us, or rather, can you suggest to us where it may be situated, and where we should direct our search?’

  ‘I believe that we should not consider the stele in isolation, Herr von Schiller. We should look at the other Polaroids that Colonel Nogo was able to recover for us, and which Fräulein Kemper has so ingeniously copied.’ Nahoot set aside the one print, and selected another from the pile in the folder in front of him. ‘This one, for example.’

  The others riffled through their own folders and selected the same print as he was displaying.

  ‘If you study the background of this copy, you will see that in the shadows behind the stele there appears to be the wall of some type of cave or cavern.’ He looked up at von Schiller, who nodded encouragement. ‘There also appears to be some type of barred doorway.’ Nahoot set the print aside and selected another. ‘Now, see here. This is a photograph taken of another subject. It is, I believe, of a mural decoration painted upon either a plastered wall or the bare rock of a cave, possibly an excavated tomb. It seems to have been taken through the grille of the gate which I pointed out to you in the first photograph of the stele. This mural is almost certainly Egyptian in style and influence. In fact it very strongly reminds me of those murals that decorated the tomb of Queen Lostris in Upper Egypt in which the original Taita scrolls were uncovered.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Go on!’ von Schiller encouraged him.

  ‘Very well, then. Using the barred gate as the connecting factor, there is every reason to believe that both stele and murals are located in the same cave or tomb.’

  ‘If that is so, what indications do we have as to where Quenton-Harper photographed these Polaroids?’ Von Schiller was still frowning angrily as he looked at each of them in turn. They all tried to avoid his blue, penetrating scrutiny.

  ‘Colonel Nogo,’ von Schiller singled him out, ‘this is your country. You know the terrain intimately. Let’s hear your thoughts on the subject.’

  Colonel Nogo shook his head. ‘This man, this Egyptian—’ he used the epithet disparagingly, ‘is mistaken. This is not an Egyptian tomb in the photographs.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Nahoot challenged him angrily. ‘What do you know about Egyptology? I have spent twenty-five years—’

  ‘Wait,’ von Schiller silenced him peremptorily. ‘Let him finish.’ He looked at Nogo. ‘Go on, colonel.’

  ‘I agree that I don’t know anything about Egyptian tombs, but these photographs were taken in a Christian church.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ Nahoot demanded bitterly, his authority challenged.

  ‘Let me explain to you that I was ordained as a priest fifteen years ago. Later, I became disillusioned with Christianity and all other religions, and left the Church to become a soldier. I tell you this so that you may believe that I know what I am talking about.’ He smiled with supercilious malice at Nahoot, before going on. ‘Look at this first print again, and you will be able to make out on the wall in the background, near the corner of the grille gate, the outline of a human hand and the stylized picture of a fish. Those are symbols of the Coptic Church. You can see them reproduced in any church or cathedral in the land.’

  Each of them peered at their own copy of the same print, but none of them ventured an opinion until von Schiller had given his.

  ‘You are right,’ von Schiller said softly. ‘There is, as you say, the hand and the fish.’

  ‘But I assure you the hieroglyphics on the stele and the murals and the wooden coffin are all Egyptian,’ Nahoot defended himself stoutly. �
��I would stake my life on it.’

  Nogo shook his head, and began to argue. ‘I know what I am saying—’

  Von Schiller held up his hand to silence them both while he considered the problem. At last he came to some decision.

  ‘Colonel Nogo, show me on the satellite photograph the site of Quenton-Harper’s camp where you obtained these Polaroids.’

  Nogo stood up, and came around the table to stand beside von Schiller. He leaned over the satellite photograph and prodded his forefinger at the spot near where the Dandera river joined the Nile. The photograph had once been in the possession of Quenton-Harper, and had been captured in the raid on his camp. There were numerous markings in coloured marker pen on the copy, which Nogo presumed had been placed there by the Englishman.

  ‘It was here, sir. You can see that Quenton-Harper has marked the spot with a green circle.’

  ‘Now show me where the nearest Coptic church is situated.’

  ‘Why, Herr von Schiller, it’s right here. Again Quenton-Harper has marked it with red ink. It is situated only a mile from the campsite. The monastery of St Frumentius.’

  ‘There is your answer, then.’ Von Schiller was still frowning. ‘Coptic and Egyptian symbols together. The monastery.’

  They stared at him, none of them daring to question his conclusion.

  ‘I want that monastery searched,’ he said softly. ‘I want every room and every inch of every wall examined.’ He turned back to Nogo. ‘Can you get your men in there?’

  ‘Of course, Herr von Schiller. I already have one of my reliable men in the monastery – one of the monks is in my pay. Added to that, there is still martial law in force here in Gojam. I am the military commander. I am fully empowered to search for rebels and dissidents and bandits wherever I suspect they may be sheltering.’