She opened the book on her lap again and extended it towards the two men. ‘Here. This is what it looks like, apparently.’
A seventeenth-century engraving showed a slab of rough-edged stone covered in Greek text. ‘It was no fairytale – like the two Pillars of Hermes that once housed it, the tablet was seen and described by ancient travellers. After Alexander the Great discovered it in the Siwa Oasis, he put it on display in the Temple of Ra in Heliopolis. A Greek visitor to Egypt described it . . .’ She read aloud from the printed page. ‘“It is a precious stone, like an emerald. On it, the characters are represented in relief, not engraved into the stone. It is estimated to be more than two thousand years old. The emerald must once have been in a liquid state like melted glass, that it might be cast in a mould.”’
‘So, forgive me for sounding like a simpleton, but is everyone looking for it because it’s an enormous emerald?’ Ilhan asked.
‘You’re missing the point,’ Sebile snapped, slamming the book shut. ‘It’s not literally an emerald. In the right hands, it could do much good for the world. A handful of sand could be used to generate enough energy to power a city. But if used with ill intent, it could destroy the planet.’
‘A handful of sand?’ Ben had been puzzling over what it was about the tablet that would drive somebody to kill. Now he had his answer.
‘Yes. That’s why some people will go to the ends of the earth to protect it. And why others will do anything to steal it.’ Sebile held out her hand. ‘Show me your drawing . . .’
Ben handed her his journal. ‘Here.’ She pointed at the page. ‘It’s a mountain with two summits – one male, the other female. The signs – the stars and the caput mortuum – are leading you to the female summit. It’s a cave, of course. I’d expect to find a phallus marker on the twin summit. This is the union of opposites recorded in the land itself – the divine marriage or hieros gamos you mentioned before, where male and female unite to become whole. This is a literal depiction of an actual place. Where did you find it?’
‘It was . . . well, it was a woman. She led me there. Or, should I say, I followed her there.’ Ben cringed.
Sebile paused. ‘You love this woman.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Love?’ He could tell there was no point denying his feelings. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘You know, many of the most powerful alchemists were women – Mary the Jewess, Cleopatra –’
‘Cleopatra?’ interjected Ilhan.
‘Not that Cleopatra. Cleopatra the Alchemist. Your woman, Dr Hitchens . . . Is she a good woman?’
‘I don’t know if I’d call her “good”,’ Ben responded.
‘Is she searching for Balinas as well?’
‘Yes, I think she is. And now I know why.’
‘Do you trust her?’
‘Trust? No.’
‘Then you must stop her.’
‘My problem is that even if this is a map, I’ve no idea where it’s leading me. This mountain? Could be anywhere.’
‘Psamtik. You recognise his name.’
‘Yes. From a statue I saw when I was a child.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? You know it? Well, that’s most interesting.’ She fanned through the pages of the book in her lap again. ‘Is this the one you saw?’ She held the book open for Ben.
A skilfully rendered drawing filled the page. Ben recognised it immediately. ‘How the . . .?’ He couldn’t believe it. The noble figure of Psamtik strode forward beneath the protective dewlap of the cow-goddess, Hathor.
‘I suppose the coincidence isn’t so great,’ she replied. ‘I wouldn’t for a minute claim that my knowledge of Ancient Egyptian art is exhaustive. But as far as I know, this is the only depiction of Psamtik in existence.’ She passed the journal into Ben’s hands.
‘There’s an inscription here. In Ancient Greek,’ he observed.
‘Can you read it?’ Sebile asked.
‘Almost better than I can English,’ he responded as he ran his finger along the line of carefully drawn ancient text. ‘“From Jezirat Faraun where Psamtik the keeper of His tribute laboured under Hathor’s watchful eye, Thuban will guide you past riches revealed to mankind by angels to the mountain where Apollonius finally achieved the Great Work.”’ He glanced up. ‘Mountain. Again with the nameless mountain.’
‘Not that I’d assume to tell you your job. But it seems that Psamtik here might be a good starting point.’
‘He’s in Cairo.’
‘From Mersin on the ferry, it’s not such a difficult journey across the sea to Alexandria.’
‘What makes you think I should pay any attention to what’s in this book? Where did you get it?’ Ben leafed through the pages. At the front were scribbled notes in French and drawings such as the one Sebile had shown him depicting Psamtik and Hathor. But the pages in the second half of the book were pasted with fragments of scorched paper covered in partial passages and sentences written in French.
‘It was given to me. In France. Many years ago . . . before I came here. I moved in circles where these things were studied. And I was told that it’s all that remains of the writings of the French alchemist, Fulcanelli.’
‘Fulcanelli? Sounds Italian.’
‘It was a pseudonym. “Fulcan”, “Vulcan” – the Roman god of fire and the forge. A most appropriate namesake. Ever since Balinas accepted a young man as his disciple – Damis of the city of Hierapolis – an unbroken lineage of master and adept has continued for thousands of years. It’s through this line of descent that the secrets he discovered have been kept alive – and the resting place of the Emerald Tablet kept hidden. Fulcanelli is – or was – the latest in that long line.’
‘So he was an alchemist, then?’
‘Yes. But his research wasn’t all arcane. The man who gave this to me told me that he’d shown these pages to a scientist at the Sorbonne. The experiments and theories show Fulcanelli had an understanding of nuclear physics that exceeded the knowledge of most experts in the field.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Nobody knows. Against his wishes, the nature of his research was publicised, and during the war the Nazis pursued him, desperate to tap into his knowledge. For them, of course, it was always about gold . . .’
‘Bloody Himmler,’ Ben scoffed. ‘Gold teeth ripped from Jewish jaws weren’t enough for him. I did hear a rumour he had an alchemy lab set up at Dachau.’
‘That he did. And after the fall of Berlin, the Americans and Russians seized the Nazi archives. It was there they learnt of Fulcanelli’s research. And so, the race began. Fulcanelli disappeared and there was an attack on his laboratory. Much of his work was lost in a fire. All that survived is in here. They were hunting for him then, and are still hunting for him now.’
Something didn’t add up for Ben. ‘You mentioned an adept . . .’
‘Yes. There was a young man who had promise. Fulcanelli accepted him as his apprentice and initiated him into the sacred arts. But he betrayed his master. He was seduced by an evil man. He told him everything. If your woman is following the same trail you are, it’s possible that’s how she knew where to find the map. And if that’s the case, under no circumstances should the tablet fall into her hands.’
‘I have my own reasons for wanting to do this,’ Ben responded. ‘But why is it so important to you?’
Sebile knotted her hands together in her lap, her brow furrowed. ‘Humankind is so close to stumbling onto the truth . . . about the power that creates – and destroys – life. But most of us are little more than sentient chimpanzees. Very few people understand how dangerous this knowledge is. The bombs over Japan were a twitch in the corner of the eye compared to the apocalyptic destruction that could be released if the secrets of the tablet are revealed. Because just as it can lead us on a path to the purest light in the universe, so too can it evoke the dimmest corners of hell. The sun is our only source of life. It burns in our heavens – a gift. And it costs us nothing. We’ve been
blessed with all the elements we need to live – the sun, water, wind and earth . . . creative forces that generate light and life. Yet we burrow in the soil to dig up ancient corpses to fuel our hunger for energy. The world today – motors . . . engines . . . artificial light – it’s all powered by death; the decayed shells of things that once lived. We’re ignoring light and life and choosing death.’
‘Oil . . . you’re talking about oil.’
‘Of course I am. And Balinas discovered an alternative that outshines that coarsest of fuels – it could be humankind’s salvation. But it could also bring about its end. Even your Isaac Newton knew this. He lived during the Age of Reason. Magic, superstition and religion were forced into the shadows cast by the bright light of scientific logic. It seemed that every natural phenomenon had a rational explanation. But when it appeared that the purest truth – the secret of the Emerald Tablet – might be revealed, Newton wrote a letter to his fellow alchemist, Robert Boyle, urging him to remain silent about his discoveries, to protect the world from itself. He knew that the infinite power that could be unleashed through the alchemical transmutation of matter could be cataclysmic. And that’s why you must pursue this. You will find the tablet, and you’ll bring it to me.’
‘Why do you trust me?’
She gazed at him. ‘A lifetime’s experience observing human nature. You’re an honourable man.’
Ben laughed. ‘Many would disagree with you.’
The tiny bus back to Niğde bounced and swerved across the potholed road, the only other passenger a toothless old man with two well-trussed chickens resting on his lap.
Weighing heavily in Ben’s pocket was the scarab, which Sebile had pressed into his palm without a word when they were leaving.
‘Ever been to Egypt?’ he asked Ilhan.
‘Egypt? Never.’
‘Want to come with me?’
Ilhan said nothing, the crunch of gravel beneath tyres the only sound in the cabin.
‘Well?’
‘With all you’ve got going on, Ben – what do you think you’ll gain by pursuing this?’
‘The excavation season at Mt Ida’s finished for the year. The only thing I should be doing at the moment is writing up the findings . . . and there’s still plenty of time for that. Not to mention, unless they’ve already decided I didn’t have anything to do with the librarian’s death, from what Hasan told me I think it’s best I stay away from Istanbul for a bit. Spending some time out of the country is probably a good idea. That’s if they haven’t already moved to stop me leaving. Besides . . . Cairo? It’ll be fun. I promise.’
‘Fun?’ Ilhan shook his head. ‘The history you have with those people . . . I just don’t see how any good will come of it.’
‘Shame . . . I’d imagine Cairo’s ripe for the picking for a man with your interests.’
‘So there’s no talking you out of it?’
Ben shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Pass up the opportunity to upset the plans of the woman who had destroyed his life and played him for a fool? ‘Not a chance.’
‘Fine. I’ll come. I guess I’ll be able to find a way to make it worth my while.’
Glancing at his friend sitting by his side, his arms crossed tightly at his chest, Ben could see Ilhan was anything but thrilled at the thought.
THE TIMES
29 October 1956
INCREASED BRITISH AND FRENCH NAVAL ACTIVITY IN THE MEDITERRANEAN
LONDON, Monday (Reuters)
British and French naval activity in the Eastern Mediterranean and the massing of troops in Algeria and on Malta and Cyprus suggest the inevitability of a military response to the looming crisis, a Reuters correspondent reports.
Amid condemnation by the eleven-member United Nations Security Council and the U.S., reports of mounting military activity in the Mediterranean continue to emerge. The U.S. Secretary of Defence, Mr Charles Wilson, has said that any military action in Suez would be ‘regrettable’.
America is alarmed by Communist attempts to find a foothold in the Middle East, and is seeking to collaborate with President Nasser in an alliance to fight Communism in the region. This requires Washington to maintain neutrality in the ongoing conflict between Israel and its Arab neighbours. To be seen to be supporting the British and French military build-up would damage Washington’s relationship with the Egyptian Government.
Washington has also distanced itself from Israel amid suspicions that Israeli actions along its borders with Egypt and Jordan are backed by covert French military support.
In a frank discussion, U.S. Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles, expressed his concerns, noting the ‘danger of our being drawn into the hostilities as we were in World Wars I and II – with the difference this time that it appears in the eyes of the world that the British and French might well be considered the aggressors in an anti-Arab, anti-Asian war. I’ve been greatly worried for two or three years over our identification with countries pursuing colonial policies not compatible with our own.’
10
London
‘We shall fight them on the beaches . . . and we shall nevah surrender!’ Adam Penney spun in the cracked leather office chair, hand raised to mimic Sir Winston Churchill’s famous victory salute. ‘Hard to imagine the portly old bugger jammed in here – always thought this place would be bigger, for some reason. The way Daddy described it, I thought it must have been an underground city.’ He leant back and put his feet on the table. ‘But it’s little more than a rabbit warren, after all.’
The Cabinet War Rooms were oppressive and stalked by ghosts. Essie looked up. Although she knew it was nothing more than an optical illusion, the low-slung, bulky steel girders supporting the room seemed to be sagging towards the floor, weighed down by the men and women rushing by on the London streets above and oblivious to the hidden world beneath their feet. Completed a week before Britain declared war on Germany in 1939, the War Rooms were built as a bunker in which the Prime Minister and his Cabinet could convene in safety when Hitler sent his bombers across the English Channel. These days, it served as a meeting place that was private and perfectly situated for those who were attempting to avoid scrutiny.
Although the antique table they were seated at had been buffed and polished recently in anticipation of their arrival, much of the furniture in the room – filing cabinets, bookshelves, side tables – was covered in a thick layer of grey dust. Essie had determined long ago that she didn’t have the luxury of acknowledging any significant psychological weaknesses, but if she were to grant herself one, it would be claustrophobia. And this stifling and confined space below ground pushed her to her limits.
Josef Garvé leant back in his chair and checked his wristwatch. ‘Mind what you say, Adam. Your uncle’s due at any moment, and given his long association with that “portly old bugger”, I imagine he’d hope you were a little more respectful.’
‘Respectful? Let’s talk about “respect”, shall we? Where’s the “respect” for the man whose work I’m continuing, eh? You do realise where the “V” salute came from, don’t you? Not Churchill, that pompous old prig. Aleister Crowley, believe it or not. And if Churchill and his bunch of spineless lackeys had stolen a little more from Crowley than just a hand gesture, we’d all be a hell of a lot better off today. The world’s going to shit, and those idiots are the ones to blame!’ Adam was ranting. ‘If they’d paused for just one moment to absorb Crowley’s teaching and revelations, to open their minds to the gifts he offered the human race instead of treating him as a pariah –’
‘Adam?’ Essie assumed her most mollifying tone of voice. ‘Josef’s right. We do need to be careful. That doesn’t mean you don’t have a point – though you must admit that your former master is hardly “in favour” with those in power. So it’s probably best to keep all mention of him out of this discussion . . . don’t you think?’
Adam stood, walked behind Essie’s chair and began to knead her shoulders. ‘Seeing as you asked so nicely
, it’d be churlish of me to refuse, wouldn’t it?’ She felt the pincer-like grasp of his fingers on her skin and squirmed. The physical contact was uninvited and inappropriate; worse still was his undisguised ogling of her deep cleavage. She fought her natural instinct to slap his hands away.
‘Speaking of Crowley, Adam,’ Essie said through gritted teeth. ‘I need to examine your papers again before we leave London.’
‘Always so serious, aren’t you, Mrs Peters?’ He sighed and released his grip. ‘Well, all work and no play makes for a very dull boy . . . How about we mix our business with a little pleasure? The journal’s at my home in Knightsbridge. I’ll send my car for you tonight . . . we’ll have supper afterwards. I have some friends joining me for a study group – you’ll enjoy it.’
‘I’d rather you just brought it in to the office tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, I do mind, as it happens. Those documents are priceless – I shan’t be shuttling them about town and putting them at risk of loss or damage. Like it or not, you’ll need to come to me if you want to see them again.’
Essie saw Garvé shoot her a quizzical glance.
‘Fine.’ She had no choice. Now she had all the other references on hand, she needed to double-check she’d interpreted the notes in Aleister Crowley’s diary correctly. ‘Get your driver to pick me up at seven. I’ll be at –’
Adam winked and tapped his forehead. ‘No need . . . I’ve got your home address committed to memory.’
Essie didn’t doubt it for a minute.
Shuffling footsteps down the corridor signalled the approach of a visitor. The door creaked open. ‘Ah . . . hello . . .?’ Peering through heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles, William Penney caught sight of the trio awaiting him inside and removed his grey felt fedora, holding it awkwardly by his side. ‘Monsieur Garvé . . . delightful, delightful . . . and Mrs Peters . . .’ The Deputy Chairman of the Atomic Energy Authority shook the Frenchman’s extended hand vigorously and raised Essie’s to his lips for a chaste kiss. ‘Young Adam . . . keeping out of trouble, are you?’ For his nephew, a chummy double handshake.
The Emerald Tablet Page 9