Eagle of Darkness

by Christopher Wright

  And the beer. The maintenance workers had not been able to drink all their Sakkara before going back to Cairo, because he'd hidden some of it away before they left. The beer had been the best bonus so far this year.

  He picked up a larger stone and threw it at the painted sign lit by the rising moon. It hit the metal with a sharp clang, just above the C of Cola. There was no one around to witness his skill. The people of Beni Mazar never came out here. Just the man yesterday with the bright blue Mitsubishi, leaving the large wooden crate.

  It bothered him not knowing what was inside. At the third stone, the faded sign slipped sideways on the wall. Slowly he pulled a key for the warehouse door and a small flashlight from deep inside his filthy cloak. It might be worth another look.

  Chapter 6

  Institute of Egyptologists, England

  THE MORNING sun beamed through the south window of the room, onto the huge plaster mural on the north wall. Aten, the sun god, with the people below raising their arms in worship.

  Gresley Wynne bent down and stroked the large cream colored cat. Its pointed ears took him back to the cats of ancient Egypt. It had been worth the extended quarantine to get this magnificent animal from Cairo three years ago.

  This room was indeed a temple. By the evening, when the sun ceased to shine, a ruby-red laser gleamed down from the center of the painted sun above the low table, the single ray scattering on the polished floor before being reflected out through the window, challenging the night sky with the purity and perfection of its ray. Aten, the disc of the sun. From midnight until dawn a projector displayed the night sky in Egypt, the stars exactly as seen in the year 1349 BC, the year the Pharaoh Akenaten and his priests explored the ancient pyramid of King Unas and broke the code of the Pyramid Texts.

  He ran his fingers slowly and tenderly along the top of the table by the north wall. This Table of Life was right and proper for the Hall of Aten. Wood, a living substance, like human flesh. Used for the service of a worthy cause. A giving of the body to the Partners, giving in total submission. Self-gratification had never been an objective of the Institute, but the contemplation of a willing body did have a certain erotic effect that could not be dismissed lightly.

  The three Partners of Aten were still evolving. Total dedication had been important in the early days. There had been much work to be carried out over that time, leaving little energy for the diversion of Aten's energy as it flowed through the living bodies of his Partners on earth.

  Was it possible for a mere employee, uninitiated, to come under the influence of Aten? Suddenly the American woman was standing at the door, watching. "What do you want, Mrs. Pulaski?"

  The housekeeper walked forward, her body thin but firm. She placed her purse on the table. "Sorry to bother you, Dr. Wynne, but I've been down to the shop to get the papers and your magazines. I couldn't find you earlier, so I used my own money. Do you have a twenty pound note?"

  "I think so, Mrs. Pulaski."

  The woman had broken the spell, but in the name of Aten she now aroused him. This young widow surely had needs that filled her with fire deep down. Of course it was a shock to hear her speak of money. The very mention of contemporary life had no part in the speech that should pass human lips in the Hall of Aten. He snatched the purse from the oak table. The woman had touched the Table of Life. Aten could be easily displeased.

  He watched her as she moved. Beneath that loose navy sweatshirt lay a dark and supple body, filled with Egyptian blood. After fifteen years of dedication to serving Aten he was finding a sudden rebirth of his sexual energy. Memories of excitement during his college days returned. Male or female, did it matter as long as the flesh was in the springtime of life? He found himself unexpectedly stimulated.

  "I am going to see Mr. Bolt this afternoon, Mrs. Pulaski. I would like you to drive me."

  *

  Virginia, U.S.A.

  GRANT SPAXLEY had a high level of respect for Martin Kramer, even though the man was constantly frustrated in his attempts to become a deputy director. Kramer tied flies for trout like no one else. He could write a best-selling book about fly fishing if he ever had the time. Green Drakes, Pheasant Tails, Light Cahills, Parachute Adams -- each fly subtly tailored to suit the conditions. Spaxley knew that in comparison, his own flies were only a shadow of the CIA man's works of art.

  "I thought we'd have a little talk, Admiral," said Kramer with his practiced smile that looked genuine, but was probably no more real than the tied flies in his cap were living, breathing examples of insect life. "I've not liked keeping things back from you since you left the White House."

  Spaxley nodded, taking his eyes off the March Brown he was halfway through making. March Browns were the only flies to use today, Kramer said, and it seemed that Kramer had been astute enough to bring his own immaculately prepared specimens. "Sure, I understand."

  Kramer's March Browns certainly looked impressive, but he was already making small changes. "Have you heard of the Institute of Egyptologists?"

  "I guess so," said Spaxley. "They're the group in England who seem to be getting everything thing right."

  "And you know why, Admiral?"

  Spaxley shrugged. "They're lucky?"

  "Lucky, like hell. I infiltrated the Institute. Nearly a year ago."

  Spaxley let his fly slip and it dropped to the ground. "You're serious?"

  "They got an early prediction for the Middle East correct eighteen months back. It was the death of an Iraqi general. Chance probably, but they had his name right, so it earned them an investigation by the British Secret Intelligence Service." Kramer looked up from his intricate work with a grin. "GCHQ at Cheltenham, England. They ran a full inquiry for them. Eavesdropping, electronic surveillance, computer hacking. Turned out the Institute was just a joke, and word went out they were to be left alone." He pulled the line thread with his teeth, tightening the waist of the March Brown. "That's when I took over."

  "With or without approval?"

  Kramer tapped his nose. "Operation Oracle."

  "You've arranged this fishing trip to tell me the Company is hooked into the computers of the Institute of Egyptologists? Damn!" The carefully bound thread slipped, leaving a tangled mess of feathers and fur in place of his beautiful March Brown.

  Kramer flicked his line across the smooth flowing water, dropping the fly with pin-point accuracy in a patch of still water between two large rocks. "Those kookies are about to go public with some major predictions for the Middle East."

  Spaxley had followed the cast with envy. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I want you to contact the Institute of Egyptologists and offer to handle their PR."

  "What the hell for?" The second fly in Spaxley's fingers also turned into a nightmare ball of fluff.

  "I need their prophecies to have the widest possible coverage in the media."

  Spaxley dropped the tangle of thread. "You need? Is this for Langley?"

  "My personal operation, Admiral. I'm going to destroy Israel."

  "The hell you are."

  "The Jews have always hated my family. They murdered my father."

  "The Feds said it was drug smugglers."

  "That was just a cover up. The trouble started in the nineteen twenties. My great grandfather was working for a Jewish clothing company in Harlem, West 125th Street, but his boss detested him because he was a Gentile. That's why he never got the promotion he deserved. He was the first to go in the Depression. Couldn't take it. One day my grandfather got back from school and found him hanging from a beam in the garage. Can you imagine that, a fifteen-year-old kid finding his papa hanging from a beam?"

  "I heard." The next fly looked no better.

  "Did you also hear my grandfather went to work for U.S. Customs when he left college? He was helping Immigration when he intercepted a boatload of Jewish refugees off the coast of New York. Nineteen forty-two it was. Refused to let them through until the paperwork was all sorted out. A Nazi U-boat torpedoed the Je
ws' ship as they waited. My grandfather was exonerated in the inquiry, but his mistake was to rescue the survivors and take them back to New York."

  "His mistake?"

  "The survivors pointed the finger at my grandfather. Accused him of callous behavior. The families of the Jews who died on the ship vowed vengeance. I found my grandfather's diaries eight years ago. He lived every day in fear that they'd kill our family."

  "Perhaps he was simply paranoid," suggested Spaxley.

  "Not true. My father and grandfather had taken me to a baseball game. I was only twelve. On the way back two hooded men leaped out of a parked car and grabbed them. Shot my father and grandfather through the head on some waste land while I was watching. I thought I was next, but they told me to clear off and tell my mother what I'd seen."

  "Drug smugglers," said Spaxley. Kramer wasn't the only one who was paranoid. By the sound of it his whole family had been crazy for generations. "Kramer, he was working on a drugs ring for Customs. The Mafia run hit squads."

  "That's what the cops said. It was a cover-up. They weren't prepared to blame the Jews."

  Spaxley shook his head. And all because a man working in a clothing factory lost his job in the Depression. If the CIA knew about the ramblings in Kramer's grandfather's diary they would never let him become a deputy director -- on grounds of inherited insanity. "You have proof?"

  "Look, Admiral, I don't need proof. The State of Israel is illegal. They stole Arab land to get it. Any other race, and the West would have been down on them hard. But not the Jews. Too many vested interests in the United States. And now look what's happened to New York on nine-eleven last year. It was our support for the Jews that caused those terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Hell, it was only the start of our troubles when those planes hit. I lost close pals in the Pentagon."

  "You on a personal crusade or something, Kramer?"

  "Endermann knows how I feel. You ask him. Jews' gold ruined his family."

  Spaxley frowned. "I've never felt one way or the other about the Jews."

  Kramer looked with stabbing eyes. "Operation Oracle is going to end the State of Israel for ever. The Jews will be homeless for the next two thousand years, just as they were after the Romans sacked Jerusalem in AD 70. You'll see. I'd been working on a plan for the best part of three years and getting nowhere. And suddenly a year ago up popped the Institute of Egyptologists. My new plan is perfect, but now I have run into a small problem. I'm pulling Endermann out of the press game."

  "Endermann's been messing with the press? For you?"

  "Admiral, I know you and Endermann haven't always hit it off. But you're an expert on the media. That's why I need your help."

  Spaxley felt more excitement than if he'd caught the first trout. He tossed his next attempt at the March Brown into the wicker basket. "Middle East travel?"

  Kramer shook his head. "I need Endermann in Cairo, helping Ahmed with his explosives."

  "So who's the man you've infiltrated into the Institute of Egyptologists in England?"

  "Olsen. Andy Olsen. Well, that's his identity now. Don't know how much longer I can trust him."

  "Care to tell me more?"

  "Admiral, you'll be... Hey, I've got one!" Kramer thrust the landing net into Spaxley's hands and gripped the rod with both hands. "I'm going to fulfill the prophecies."

  "By giving them a nudge in the right direction?"

  "Hell no, Admiral. A lot more than a nudge."

  "Tell me what these prophecies say. And don't give me any bullshit."

  "Would you just look at that. A trophy brown. A five-pounder if ever I saw one. Careful with that net, Spaxley. You see, the Institute of Egyptologists, with my help, has worked out that a bright light is about to shine in the sky over Egypt. A fire in the heavens, bringing death like a plague. I need a catchy name for it. Any suggestions? Damn! Hold the net lower in the water. Right there!"

  "What are you aiming for, another Middle East war?" Spaxley managed to get Kramer's trout safely into the net. "Has everyone gone mad since I left the Company?"

  "This isn't Company business, it's personal. For me and a few friends. You can meet them tomorrow evening in England."

  "Short notice, Kramer."

  "It's always short notice in my business. Are you in?"

  Spaxley knew he had a choice. He could blow the whistle and become involved in an endless government inquiry, or he could prove that he could still show people like Endermann a thing or two about controlling the press. "Have you covered your ass?"

  "Mine and Endermann's -- and yours if you join us."

  Spaxley didn't need to think. "Count me in, Kramer."

  Kramer struck his trout a sharp blow on the head. "Your flight leaves Dulles in six hours. And take it easy with Endermann. Believe me, he's a big man. It doesn't pay to butt heads."

  Chapter 7

  INTERNATIONAL NEWS BUREAU

  As the crisis in the Middle East deepens, the government of Iraq has promised to retaliate in the event of any hostile action by Israel against its Arab neighbors. A military spokesman in Baghdad this evening said that the full might of the Iraqi war machine is already mobilized, awaiting the call to go to Egypt's aid against its long-time aggressor. Many international commentators regard the threat to Israel as grave in the extreme.

  Chapter 8

  Cairo

  CARDINAL FITZ emerged from hotel, marveling at the heat in the street outside. Dublin had never been like this at the approach of winter. The old stones of his grand Cairo hotel did a fine job in keeping the interior cool. He had been warned that Egypt would be chilly in November, but the information had come from Monsignor Negib of the Coptic Church in Cairo. Over ninety percent of Egyptians were Coptic, so he'd not complain to the man. It paid to stay on good terms with the believers here. Perhaps in comparison with the intense heat of summer this was the chilly season for a Cairene, but certainly not for an Irishman.

  "Cardinal Fitz?" A young man in clerical black held out his arms in welcome, but withdrew them as Fitz approached.

  Fitz smiled wryly. That was the trouble with the full crimson regalia of a cardinal: it made youthful priests feel afraid to show their real emotions. The constant presence of an Egyptian soldier with his shiny black gun was hardly helping either. A constant armed companion seemed so unnecessary. Fitz took the initiative, reached out and embraced the young priest. "Father David?"

  Father David nodded as he took Fitz's briefcase. "The driver is across the street, Your Eminence. There's a choice. You can either go straight to meet the organizers who are with Monsignor Negib, or take a detour to see some of the sights. Does the soldier come as well?"

  "He's a charming man, but unfortunately he doesn't speak English." Fitz smiled at the soldier who continued to scan the area in front of the hotel. "If you speak Egyptian, Father David, perhaps you'd be thanking him for me. And yes, he does come as well."

  The young Catholic priest spoke a few words to the soldier who nodded glumly.

  "There's room in the car for all of us." Father David sounded more relaxed now. "Shall we make the detour and see the sights?"

  "Let's be going directly to meet the Coptic monsignor and the other leaders. It will no doubt give my brain some much-needed exercise. I think I sense a challenge coming on." He ran his hand down his cardinal's robes. "I've been wearing a smart black suit the likes of yours until today. And I'm not sure which is going to prove the more uncomfortable in this heat."

  The young priest looked let down. "The Church of Saint Sergius is not far out of our way, Your Eminence. If you would like to see it."

  Cardinal Fitz noticed the priest's expression. "All right," he agreed. "Let's be taking the detour before I meet the leaders of the other faiths." It would be a shame to disappoint the man who had put considerable time into the preparations for this unique gathering of the three faiths. "You like the old church, Father David?"

  "Many Christians wanted the service to be held there."

&
nbsp; "To be sure, and the Jews in Unity Through Faith wanted us to use the restored synagogue of Ben Ezra and fill it for worship. Are there any Jews left in Egypt?"

  "Maybe a handful, Your Eminence. Most have gone to Israel. But enough have returned to Cairo specially to fill their share of seats in the al-Sûfiya mosque."

  "I pray to God we have done the right thing."

  Father David drew his breath in sharply. "The right thing, Your Eminence? I am convinced that the people in all countries are about to see what can be achieved through love and understanding." Father David grinned with youthful self-assurance.

  "I think we should err on the side of caution," said Fitz. "There's an awful lot of spadework still to be done. I know some exceedingly holy folk who would rather put a brick through the window at your place of worship than be giving you so much as a smile."

  The driver swerved violently to miss a large pothole, then resumed his rapid course down the center line of the street.

  "This way we miss the grid-locked traffic in the city center," said Father David. "On the rise there you can see minarets of the al-Sûfiya mosque. Preparations for maximum security are now completed."

  "Are they now?" Fitz clenched the grab handle above his head. The visit to Egypt was bad enough without thinking of problems from militant dissenters of all faiths during the service. He smiled, partly for his own reassurance and partly to convince the young priest that he had no worries.

  Father David seemed to relish the lengths to which the organization had gone. "We've even checked the mosque for explosives," he added, with a smile of the young and overconfident.

  Chapter 9

  Sam's House, England

  SAM FELT lost for words. Back in his own house he could see how distasteful Dr. Wynne was. No wonder Sally had been so keen to give up her job at the Institute of Egyptologists when she won the lottery. Panya had driven Dr. Wynne in an old wreck of a car, just as he was finishing his lunch. She came in with Dr. Wynne.

  Panya had on a long black skirt today, not the leggings she'd been wearing last night. He smiled politely at her and she smiled back rather hesitantly. He had to be careful not to make her think he was interested.