Death of a Pharaoh

  “Alex, give Ethan a list of everything you’ll need,” Nkosana requested. “Get plenty of latex.”

  Alex glowed with pride. Susan looked like she was going to burst from the excitement. Nkosana smiled to himself.

  “I’ll see you guys later.” The young Pharaoh rose to leave.

  Ethan followed him to his suite.

  “Did you get the report from Timbuktu?” he asked Ethan when they were alone.

  “Yes my Lord, the transfer of the bulk of the archives and the Pharaoh’s papyrus has begun in secret,” Ethan confirmed. “All goes well.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Only you, me and the Chief Archivist.”

  “Keep it that way,” the Pharaoh ordered. “We were betrayed in Dakar. I don’t know by whom but we cannot risk the loss of my only form of communication with the Gods.”

  Ethan nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve been in touch with Pablo in Santiago de Compostela,” he added, “he is about to return to Seville and expects that with the departure of his team, a move by Sanctus Verum on the catacombs will be imminent.”

  With the excitement of the coronation, Nkosana had almost forgotten the reason for the absence of the archeologist.

  “Keep me informed and let me know when you’ve finished the plans for our trip to Mali,” he requested then added, “and Ethan, make it for my eyes only.” Nkosana couldn’t get the flicker out his mind.

  Epilogue

  The Prince Albert, Private Gentlemen’s Club, The City, London, November 15, 2016

  James Fitzwilliams despised weakness. His father had been a man without a backbone and it sent him to an early grave. The scandals occasioned by his grandfather’s flirtation with National Socialism before the Second World War nearly destroyed the family. He had continued to host known Nazi sympathizers at his estate in Northumberland even after Germany invaded Poland. He was unapologetic when the horrific details of the Holocaust stunned the world through grainy news footage of sickening realism. His stubbornness was a weakness.

  They would have lost everything had he not been the 12th Duke of Dunveran, a title going back to the early 18th Century. Despite his peerage, society shunned him and he was soon forced to sell family heirlooms to avoid foreclosure on the ancestral home. James understood his grandfather’s fascination with Hitler and his iron grip over the German people. A firm hand was not necessarily a bad thing; just look at Margaret Thatcher.

  His father drove the last nail into the coffin of the family’s honor. Crushing debts forced him into a loveless marriage, a tainted Dukedom was still enough to attract the hand of a wealthy industrialist’s daughter. He sought solace in the arms of a young scullery maid who didn’t seem to mind his habit of dressing up in his wife’s clothing. No one would have cared about his cross-dressing; God only knew the nobility was full of effete hypocrites buggering their way through private school. His real sin was falling in love with someone so far below his station. A panel of his peers sentenced him to five years in prison for corruption of a minor. The girl was only fifteen years old at the time. He died a broken man barely a year after his release.

  James later discovered that one of the Lords who sat in judgment of his father had a penchant for young boys and a lad of thirteen stabbed him to death in a public park two years later. James hated them all with a passion. Their smug offspring bullied him without pity from the day he started school; not that they lacked ammunition. His grandfather was a Nazi lover, his father a transvestite and his mother a vulgar arriviste. Ostracized and tormented, he soon learned to fight back. He became cold and ruthless, the same traits that later made him such a successful businessman. His father’s death gave him the title and his first taste of real power. He was a duke and even the professors at university had to address him as Your Grace.

  His mother died when he was twenty-two, leaving him a considerable inheritance. He was determined to put it to good use. In only four decades, he created one of the greatest industrial fortunes of modern time. All those who had tortured him as a young boy now came to him to beg for loans or a piece of the action. He reveled in charging them higher interest and on more than one occasion, he took great satisfaction in seizing their estates as collateral for unpaid loans. Revenge was like a drug for him. He grew so powerful that even Prime Ministers conveniently forgot his family’s checkered past.

  Fifteen years ago, he began to develop his plan for domination of the global economy. He was certain that capitalists could manage the world’s resources better than governments and with more profit. He soon discovered likeminded individuals in the rarefied circles of the elite and many of them commanded immense fortunes. A dozen years earlier in the same private meeting room where he now sat waiting for his appointment, ten of the world’s wealthiest investors, all of them among the top 100 on the Forbes list of billionaires, sealed the pact that led to the creation of the Consortium.

  The plan was simple; they would seek a controlling stake in a list of vital commodities then create artificial shortages that would jack up the price. The discovery of the model developed by the professor in Pittsburgh advanced their goals by several years. They were well on their way to the realization of their plan when the meddling black woman got in the way. What at the time appeared a momentary obstacle in their path became a near disaster. The surprisingly well-coordinated attack led by her grandson nearly wiped them out. It was the first time in many years that he remembered what it was like to be stung and it enraged him. In less than a week, he lost almost 78% of his personal wealth. Those who bet heavier on gold faced bankruptcy.

  Despite their losses, they still had voting control at most of the companies in the portfolio and all they needed now was an infusion of cash. Of course, the same banks that came to him cap in hand up to a few weeks ago, refused to see him now as they attempted to cauterize their own financial hemorrhaging. The desperate situation forced him to hold his nose and reach out to unconventional sources of capital such as the Russian mafia and even a pair of African despots.

  His meeting today was with a man named Luigi Gargiulo from Rome. He was a banker with a reputation for laundering money for the Mafia, although never caught. James didn’t care if the origins of the funds were illegal, he was only interested in the amount they had available and the letters that the Italian forwarded from leading banks around the world showed that he represented vast sums. Enough at least to get the Consortium back on its feet. He was worried that they would demand usurious interest or active participation. Last night, he met in secret with his partners until the early hours of the morning to calculate how much they could give up in tough negotiations. James was a bulldog but he knew he was at a disadvantage. This was going to be the most important meeting of his life. He would normally have had a scotch or two by this hour but he decided to stick to soda water to keep his wits about him.

  He heard a soft knock on the door and the club’s head butler entered, “The gentleman has arrived, Your Grace.”

  “Show him in in Geoffrey and bring us a bottle of Barolo,” he requested, “the Giacomo Conterno Riserva Monfortino will be fine.” Luckily, his guest wasn’t French; it would have cost him much more to order the best.

  “The 2002?” Geoffrey suggested.

  “Perfect!” He slipped the servant a 100 pound note. “As always, make certain there is no record of the visit at reception.”

  The butler took the money in his gloved hand and bowed with feigned deference as he turned to leave. Geoffrey had never liked Lord Dunveran. He was a thug with a title and over the years, he witnessed the many broken men who dragged themselves out of the same meeting room financially bloodied and cowed by his power. That’s why he hadn’t hesitated to accept the generous monthly stipend offered by the American gentleman to report on the activities of the duke.

  As ordered by His Grace, there were no records of his meetings at reception but every shift Geoffrey faithfully noted the names of his visitors and any tidbits of conversation he ove
rheard at the door. Today he had special information. He knew the Italian visitor about to share a bottle of Barolo with his Lordship. He was the same man who often met a compatriot in a previous club where Geoffrey worked almost three decades ago. He was certain he hadn’t recognized him as the young waiter who often served him lunch.

  As a professional butler, he was proud of his ability to remember names. The man he dined with on numerous occasions was Roberto Calvi, dubbed by the press as God’s banker. They found his body hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in 1982 in the midst of a Vatican banking scandal. His death smelled of a mafia hit but Geoffrey was certain the Catholic Church was involved. If they could murder a Pope, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a banker. Rumor was that Lord Dunveran recently suffered a dramatic reversal in his business fortunes. It appeared he had turned to the Vatican to bail him out. Why would the Catholics lend a hand? Surely they had no sympathy for a British Duke and a devote member of the Church of England. Geoffrey was positive that the American would find the information most valuable.

  James normally remained seated for most appointments, it was a power thing, but on this occasion, he rose and waited near the door. It was not a time for arrogance. The Italian was smaller than he had imagined, in his early seventies with longs strands of thinning white hair assiduously combed back then pasted with gel to create a semblance of coverage that only the owner and Donald Trump believed. He wore his camel colored overcoat draped over his shoulders as men from the continent often did and he didn´t even blink when Geoffrey casually removed it along with his silk scarf. His brown suit with a dove pinstripe had surely been crafted by a Michelangelo of the needle, a vision of a shop he had once visited in Milan came to mind, and was accompanied by an exquisite silk tie with a slightly risqué print that his father would have loved. A gold tie clip with a vaguely Masonic symbol, a Gucci leather belt and hand sewn Berluti shoes completed the impression of understated elegance that was normal in Italy but the English would consider as a tad flamboyant. His round face, undoubtedly the product of too much pasta, sported a pencil thin mustache that reminded him of a character out of an Agatha Christie novel.

  He bowed his head slightly to James when he was introduced drawing out the ‘a’ in Grace with an accent that screamed Naples. He was now even more convinced that the money was from the Camorra.

  “Welcome to London Mr. Gargiulo, how was your flight?”

  “Bene, grazie. Other than the fact that Heathrow airport looks more like Karachi with each trip,” he lamented.

  James wasn’t certain if the racist banter was a test so he ignored the comment, “I am grateful for you coming on such short notice.”

  “We are happy to be of assistance.”

  The butler returned with the wine and while he opened the bottle and served two glasses, they talked only of the weather and soccer. After letting it breathe for twenty minutes, the Barolo was excellent.

  The Italian was the first to speak after the door closed. “My team of economists informs me that your group is experiencing serious cash flow problems.”

  “Nothing we can’t overcome with some bridge financing.”

  “So you believe that your ambitious plan is still viable?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I hope you are right, your Grace. My backers have a strong interest in your success.”

  “And who might they be?”

  The Italian stared at his host for a moment as if weighing the value of showing his hand at this stage of the negotiations. “I speak for the highest authority.”

  “The Mafia?”

  The Italian seemed amused by his host’s error.

  “Lord Dunveran, even the Cosa Nostra lacks sufficient cash to fund your megalomania.”

  He tried not to show his annoyance at the implied insult. “Then who does?”

  “The Vatican,” he announced.

  It was the last thing James had expected to hear, “Why would the Catholic church want to help us?”

  “Let me just say, there is a certain commonality in our mutual objectives,” he stated. “You seek control of the world’s economy and we desire the same thing over men’s souls.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We are aware of the final stages of your plan that involve creating artificial shortages to increase the prices of the commodities that only you will possess. We are also cognizant of the probable effects including hyperinflation and mass starvation. I must admit, it is a clever strategy.”

  “Thank you,” James replied with as much modesty as he could muster. “In exchange for your financial backing what will your people want in return?”

  “Not as much as you think,” he assured him. “We do not believe in usury or taking advantage of people when they are down. We expect a modest rate of interest; shall we say Libor plus 5%.”

  James was stunned but tried to remain impassive. He had anticipated a more aggressive offer.

  “How much are you willing to lend?”

  “I have authority to offer the sum of 60 billion US dollars.”

  It was double what he had hoped.

  The Italian continued, “We have a rather embarrassing amount of gold bullion in secret vaults whose providence I’d rather not explain. Unfortunately, it is worth much less now than before your recent debacle. We are anxious to see the price of gold return to its previous highs. In addition, we will take repayment of the loan in goods; specifically grain, rice, soy beans and other food staples. We want you to guarantee that we will have exclusive rights to purchase and distribute these goods in the following countries.” He produced an envelope from his left pocket and slid it across the table.

  James removed the single typed page and reviewed the names on the numbered list. There were over fifty countries grouped in geographic regions. Many of them were Catholic but several were Muslim and some even atheist.

  “All you want is the right to feed the populations of these nations?” he confirmed.

  “Starving people make easy converts. We wish to make certain that the Evangelical churches in South America and Africa or the Muslim Brotherhoods in other areas are powerless to provide for their people. As millions begin to die, those who wish to survive will have no choice but to join our flock.”

  James had to admire the diabolical brilliance of their plan.

  “You will purchase at market price?”

  “Of course, we want you to make a good profit so you can pay back the loan.”

  “I think we can agree to those conditions.”

  “There is only one other matter,” the Italian added.

  James knew there had to be something. It all seemed too good to be true.

  “The young American who outwitted all of you, the so-called Pharaoh and head of the heretical organization known as the Servants of Ma’at. We want him dead and his organization destroyed.”

  “You get no argument from me on that one,” he agreed, “we’re already working on it.”

  “We have significant intelligence that we are willing to share in order to assist your efforts.”

  “That’s downright charitable.”

  “Charity is the pure love of Christ,” the banker affirmed.

  “Indeed,” James demurred never comfortable with religious sentiment. “I’ll have the papers drawn up tonight. How soon can we expect the funds?”

  “We’ll wire them in tranches of 10 billion, about 72 hours all together,” the Italian estimated.

  “Excellent, we starve them and you save their souls. A partnership made in heaven.”

  The Dorchester Hotel, Mayfair, London, 17.22 GMT, November 16, 2016

  Herbert Lewis read the intelligence report with great interest. The steady stream of information provided by the Head Butler of the Private Club proved invaluable. He now had a thick dossier with biographies on every member of the Executive Committee of the Consortium. The fact that they had just joined forces with the Vatican would cause no end of headaches for the new Pharaoh. Herbert
certainly hoped that was the case.

  He had never expected the hapless teenager to make it out of Dakar alive, let alone to his coronation. It had been a mistake to allow Ethan to take over his position. Nkosana’s death would have solved everything. As the last living member of the dynasty and with the meddling Chief Mbaye out of the way, the Regency Council would have turned to him to lead the organization out of the grave institutional crisis. He would only be Regent but he was certain that the Gods would eventually see the value of his leadership and appoint him as Pharaoh.

  His best-laid plans went up in smoke along with Chief Mbaye’s compound. Against all odds and with the assistance of his former prison butt-buddy and the wetback Mexican, the grandson made it to Egypt in one piece and it galled Herbert to no end when protocol forced him to place the crown on his undeserving head. He should have let him drown in that lake twelve years ago.

  Herbert stopped in London on his way back to the United States, ostensibly to supervise the effort to discover the head of the Consortium. He had just sent a dispatch telling the Pharaoh that the identity of the leader still eluded his team of investigators.

  Tomorrow, he would return to Philadelphia but first he had an appointment with Lord Dunveran over dinner to discuss how he might help them achieve their goals and how much it would cost them now that they were flush again. He reserved a private room at an East End restaurant far from the prying eyes of the butler. His betrayal of the Pharaoh wouldn’t affect his appetite. Eventually the Gods would understand the error of leaving the fate of humankind in the hands of a teenager too young even to vote. It was time for a palace coup. Nkosana would never make it to Timbuktu alive.

  TO BE CONTINUED IN

  THE WEIGHT OF ALL EVIL