The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

  ‘Uncle Bill. How are you?’

  ‘Good. Good. Well, as good as can be expected . . . as you’re all no doubt aware, internationally things are getting terribly grim.’ William Penney drew breath. ‘A situation which we know far more about than we possibly should, don’t we?’ Penney grimaced. ‘I’m still unconvinced military action is necessary . . .’

  Garvé indicated a seat and the group resumed their places at the conference table. ‘I understand your concerns, and share them, William. But I assure you, it’s a necessary evil so we can enter the peninsula without detection, and convince the monks to do what we need them to. But you can put your mind at ease – the incursion will be very short-lived – we won’t need long.’

  Penney raised a finger, its nail chewed to the quick, and tapped his dimpled chin. ‘Still . . . as much as we’re just stirring a pot that was already well on the boil, I can’t help thinking there must be another way . . .’

  Leaning forward, Essie spoke forcefully. ‘If what we’ve learnt since my visit to the archives in Topkapı is correct, Mr Penney, there are others looking for the tablet as well. Russians and Americans, by all reports –’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Garvé interjected. ‘I have reason to believe there are advance teams from both nations in Cairo. As far as I know, they don’t have the information Adam brought us, which would make it difficult for them to decipher the geographic references in the hidden map. But they’ll be watching us. And it’s hard to know how much they’ve seen. We must be extremely careful.’

  ‘The Reds . . .?’ Penney shook his head. ‘God help us, then. We always suspected they got their hands on the Nazi files on Fulcanelli. If they’ve worked out what the tablet can do to accelerate nuclear fission they’ll be as keen to get hold of it as we are. And although it pains me to say it after the time I spent at Los Alamos working on their nuclear development program, we can’t trust the Yanks anymore either. They’re determined to dominate the Muslim world, regardless of the cost. When I was a young chap, we scientists all worked together. Collegiality and all that. Sadly, those days are long gone. To protect the motherland, we need to find the tablet and we can’t depend on any external assistance, I’m afraid.’

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny, stoppered glass flask. ‘Here . . .’ He handed it to Essie. ‘I’ve never shown you the thing that convinced me you know what you’re talking about. In 1905, Flinders Petrie – the archaeologist – excavated a temple dedicated to the Ancient Egyptian goddess, Hathor, at Serabit el-Khadim in the Sinai. There were many singular features about the place, but there were two things in particular that interested him . . . a crucible of the sort used by metallurgists, and a massive deposit of that material in there. He unearthed it beneath the temple’s foundations. Petrie called it white wood ash. He excavated vast quantities of it and transported it dutifully to London, but he had no idea whatsoever what it was. And the truth is, neither do we.’

  Essie held the flask to the light. The powder inside was as white as sifted cornflour, but insubstantial – as she turned the glass, it swirled and eddied like mist.

  ‘When our scientists examined it,’ Penney continued, ‘they couldn’t determine its physical properties. You see, it seems to be powdered stone of some sort, but it’s inherently unstable. When it’s cooled – it seems to enter a state where it has a negative mass. To put it in layman’s terms, when you push something, you expect it to accelerate away from you. With negative mass, a push will send something back towards you. We’ve no idea why it acts as it does, but we’ve long suspected from the hieroglyphic inscriptions Petrie found in the temple that this is the substance the Egyptians called “white bread” and the Mesopotamians, “fire stone”. The reason we’re so interested in it, though, is that under the right conditions, we’ve found that it’s also capable of transforming matter. The promise of synthesising gold may not be as much of a pipe dream as we once believed, particularly given what you, Monsieur Garvé, told us you witnessed at Dachau . . . and that would make our Prime Minister very happy, given the parlous state of the British Treasury.’

  Penney pointed at the bottle in Essie’s hand. ‘But what excites me most of all is this material’s extreme volatility. There’s no telling what we might make of it if we were able to fabricate it ourselves. But, of course, we can’t. Not without the Emerald Tablet. If what you’ve found in that old deviant’s notes can be believed, an analysis of the tablet itself will allow us to master the processes used to make it. And with that knowledge, anything’s possible. That’s why we need it for Mother England. Can’t have it falling into anyone else’s hands.’

  Leaning across the table, his hands interlocked before him, Josef Garvé considered William Penney with a clinical gaze. ‘As I explained to you on the telephone, we’re poised to go, Mr Penney. We’ll be in Egypt at the assigned time; all we need is information from you about the military options for transporting us into the desert. Once we find the tablet, as negotiated, we’ll hand it over to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Quite.’ Penney stood and walked to the door. ‘Which is, of course, why we’re here . . . I’ve invited Captain Knight to join us. He’ll be escorting you into the Sinai. He’s a good man, but he’s straight as a die – he knows only that this is a secret mission and that it’s of the utmost importance to the nation’s security.’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly an exaggeration, is it?’ interrupted Adam.

  ‘You’re quite right, Adam. But see here . . .’ Penney spoke below his breath to his nephew as he would to a dull child. ‘It’s very important that nobody outside our immediate circle knows what we’re really looking for. We’re in luck that the PM is a vain man who developed an impressive chip on his shoulder after having to serve as Winston’s sidekick for so many years. The Benzedrine he’s on has made him more suggestible than ever. It didn’t take much for me to convince him that it was a good idea to take a trip into the desert to find a recipe to replace the gold that the Americans are threatening to take away from us. But if he was in his right mind, he would have laughed me out of his office. If Macmillan – or any of the others who’d be quite happy to send Eden packing – got wind of what we have going on here . . . well, for one thing, they’d likely lock us all up in the madhouse. And – to be frank – that’s not where I want to spend my retirement. So best we tread carefully and keep this to ourselves, yes?’

  Chastened, the young man just nodded in response.

  ‘Captain . . .?’ Penney opened the door and summoned someone waiting outside.

  Captain Matthew Knight was tall and lanky with carefully coifed auburn hair, a man who’d clearly cultivated the studied expression of focused intensity he seemed to believe was expected of a celebrated war hero. Knight ducked his head instinctively as he walked through the door into the cramped room, his peaked hat tucked beneath his arm and Royal Air Force uniform embellished with a reassuring array of military awards and decorations. Penney introduced him.

  ‘So I’m to brief you. Seems we’re going to be flying you in with the troops.’ Eyebrow raised, Knight cast a dubious eye over his charges. ‘Which of you will be on board?’

  ‘All three of us,’ Garvé replied.

  Knight was sceptical as he took in Essie in her snugly fitting suit. ‘War’s no place for a woman, if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am.’

  Essie bristled. ‘Don’t you worry about me, sir. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But on the frontline? Doesn’t seem right to take a lady into combat.’

  ‘She’s essential to the mission, Captain Knight,’ Garvé responded.

  ‘Essential, you say? They didn’t warn me I was leading a ladies’ brigade into battle. Fair enough. I’d better make sure I wear my Sunday best.’ He winked at Essie.

  She smiled thinly. She’d once imagined that the day would come when the endless condescending barbs shot in her direction as she went about her work would eventually bounce off and leave her unscathed. But she now
knew that had just been wishful thinking. If anything, it irritated her more than ever.

  ‘Well, there’ll be plenty of room for you to make yourself comfortable, anyway, Mrs Peters – plenty of space for your luggage and whatnot. We’ve got a Wessex Whirlwind lined up to get us across the battlefront and back. It’s quite something. We’ll be heading to shore from the HMS Theseus. It’s the first helicopter assault the RN has ever launched. History in the making, if you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘Not that we’ll ever be able to talk about it, though, isn’t that right, Captain?’ William Penney reminded him.

  ‘Yes. Quite. Of course,’ Knight responded tightly. ‘Anyway . . . by my calculations, our journey’ll take about an hour. Though that doesn’t account for any hostile fire we might encounter. Once we clear the coastline, we should be right. None of it is without its dangers, of course – if we do get into trouble . . . well, there’s not much in the way of roads or settlements in the desert, just tribes of Bedouin, and I don’t see them being too keen to help us, given the circumstances.’

  The phone on the desk rang, cutting though the room’s oppressive silence. ‘Excuse me . . .’ William Penney fumbled for the receiver. ‘Yes . . .?’ As he listened, his brow creased and the colour fled his cheeks. ‘I see . . . thank you for letting me know.’ He placed the handset gently back into its cradle.

  ‘Well, gentlemen – and Mrs Peters – the orders have been signed and the countdown has begun. The Israelis are poised to launch their initial foray and the main attack will commence in the days that follow. It’s time.’

  After William Penney took the phone call, the meeting dispersed quickly. Taking the first opportunity to flee the cloying environment, Essie had made her way to the street above and hailed a cab.

  It shouldn’t have come as any surprise to learn that British and French convoys were already assembling in Malta and Cyprus, with troops and supplies landed in Marseilles and Toulon. Penney’s assessment had been blunt: ‘They’re certainly not gathering in the Mediterranean for a regatta.’ But still, Essie always found it felt strangely surreal when plans that had been gestating for so long came to fruition.

  The countdown had begun. Israel would cross the Sinai border to attack Egypt, which would have no choice but to retaliate. Britain and France would then use the justification that the continuing operation of the Suez Canal was a matter of global importance, and warn both parties to withdraw their troops. When Egypt refused, as was inevitable, France and Britain would take that as an excuse to attack. Essie, Garvé and Penney would then take advantage of the large-scale distraction to go into the Sinai without detection.

  Essie settled back against the cab’s unyielding vinyl upholstery and watched the passing parade of Londoners bustling by along the footpath, cast in silhouette by golden autumn light. The cab pulled up at an intersection where a mother watched on indulgently as her three children kicked at a pile of crumpled brown leaves fallen from the plane trees lining the street.

  She felt a sharp stab of guilt at the thought that she was playing an instrumental role in the tempest brewing just beyond the horizon – the dangers of which these people were blissfully unaware. Yes, they’d set all the safeguards in place to ensure the smouldering embers of war were snuffed out before they burst into flame. But she’d seen enough of history and human nature to know how quickly events could spiral out of control.

  11

  London

  As the hand on the clock in her kitchen ticked towards the hour, Essie sipped from a cup of strong black tea. The day outside the bay window was fading and streetlamps were lighting up as blackbirds serenaded dusk’s arrival.

  A grim sense of trepidation sprouted in her gut. She’d stemmed her hunger with a chicken sandwich and tomato salad in anticipation of turning down the expected invitation to share a meal with Adam Penney and his companions. She had no intention of succumbing to whatever his plans were for her evening, but suspected negotiating her way around him this time wasn’t going to be easy.

  The time was fast approaching when the doorbell would ring, announcing the arrival of his driver. She retreated to her bathroom where she ran warm water onto a facecloth and worked up a soapy lather to wash away any lingering traces of makeup. She looked at herself in the mirror. Clad in the most modest outfit in her wardrobe, and with clean, bare skin and her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a chignon, she looked young enough to be a schoolgirl. The black woollen turtleneck and tweedy skirt were working hard to disguise her physical assets, but there was no hiding the fact that cloaked beneath the houndstooth were undeniably womanly curves.

  It was the best she could do to divert Adam’s unwanted advances, short of defending herself physically, which she’d have no qualms about doing if she was left with no other choice. The art of jujitsu wasn’t generally regarded as a pursuit that was suitable for a respectable lady. But Essie considered herself neither respectable, nor a lady. And working in the world she did – consorting with people operating outside the bounds of common law – she’d always assumed that eventually she’d be forced to confront a bodily assault of some sort or another and she fully intended to be prepared. Her instincts and wiles were sharp enough that she’d so far managed to avoid using the skills she’d acquired under the tutelage of her jujitsu trainer, May Whitley. Though if she were honest, the thought of testing her skills on someone other than a sparring partner was wickedly tempting.

  Outside, she heard the distinctive squeal of her wrought-iron front gate. The knot of anxiety tightened as Essie gathered up her bag and headed for the entrance. As she reached for the handle, the shiny brass mail slot set into her front door clattered and a handful of letters popped through.

  Not a chauffeur – the postman. Relieved at the temporary reprieve, she rifled through the mail and cast all aside other than the distinctive blue aerogramme envelope embossed with an instantly recognisable stamp – an olive-green backdrop graced with the noble profile of a woman acclaimed as one of the most beautiful ever born – Nefertiti – the wife of the heretic Egyptian king, Akhenaten. Instinctively, Essie shut her eyes and raised the letter to her nose, sniffing to see whether the whispery blue paper carried with it the exotic aroma of the place she’d called home for so many years. She knew it was most likely just her imagination, but she thought she caught a hint of cinnamon sticks, cardamom and peppercorns – the scents of her stepmother’s kitchen.

  The message the letter contained was short and to the point. Written by her half-sister in words shaved of any sentiment, it informed her that the woman who’d done her best to love her and raise her as her own after the death of Essie’s mother was, herself, dying.

  Essie looked at the postmark. Cairo, dated a week prior. Meera had sent it as a formality . . . a courtesy. She’d written it to inform Essie of an impending event, not in the expectation that she would – or could – do anything about it. On the many occasions she’d relocated over the years, Essie had always made sure her family had her address. She also periodically sent them money – though whether to help them or assuage her own guilt she could never be sure. But she’d never received any acknowledgement of any sort from them – this was the first and only communication she could recall in many years.

  The doorbell rang. Essie had thought she’d successfully amputated and cauterised all emotional links to her past. But the surge of grief and regret that swamped her as she opened the door to greet Penney’s driver suggested otherwise.

  Any vague hopes she’d harboured that Penney may have had something on his mind other than seduction were shattered when he opened his front door clad in a maroon silk dressing- gown belted loosely enough to show that he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath it to match his black dinner pants.

  ‘Answering the door yourself now, Adam?’

  ‘I gave Basil the night off.’

  That does not bode well for my evening, thought Essie. She’d much rather have known that Adam’s butler was on duty, if only because it meant
he was – at the very least – mindful of the appearance of propriety.

  ‘I’m disappointed.’ Penney’s eyes skimmed her shapely form. ‘You didn’t dress for the occasion.’

  ‘No.’ She smiled tightly. She’d already been dubious enough about spending the evening beneath Adam Penney’s roof. The unexpected news from Egypt only heightened her apprehension. ‘Just here to look at the documents. Then I’ll be going. I’ve already eaten.’ Might as well knock that one on the head right off the bat.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ He stood back and Essie passed beneath the porticoed entranceway, edging past him as her olfactory senses were assaulted by a nauseating fog of citrusy aftershave. The corridor inside the terrace house was dimly lit and a low murmur of conversation and muted laughter came through double doors left partially ajar and leading into what Essie guessed would be the main reception room.

  ‘Let’s go through to the library then . . .’ Penney strode towards the back of the house, the click of his well-polished brogues resounding on the black and white chequerboard tiles. He paused as they passed the entrance to the room that was – judging by the sound levels from within – hosting a gathering of a reasonably large group of people. ‘Now, what we’re doing here . . . the group I’ve gathered . . . I’m sure what we’re discussing will be of great interest to you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Really, I’ve a great deal to do. I’d much rather get straight onto it.’