Pharaoh (20 page)

particular religious faith. It could have even been a mosque. ‘This is America,’ he had thought. ‘They couldn’t decide on a single faith, so they chose no faith at all.’

Before long he was pulling onto the wide boulevard that flanked the little lake on the old World’s Fair grounds, shimmering under the street lights that cast a greenish halo across the ice. A few minutes later he was getting on the almost deserted Dan Ryan, taking the overpass that headed south.

He passed a police car lazily patrolling the expressway and could make out the corpulent body of the black officer behind the wheel. He followed an oil tanker gleaming with chrome and brightly coloured lights as far as the 111th exit, where he got into the right-hand lane. A little further on, he noticed an old Pontiac station wagon with Indiana plates proceeding at a steady speed of forty miles per hour. He thought it might be his contact.

He saw him turn off at 115th street at five to eleven and pull into the parking lot of a liquor store; now he was sure.

He took a deep breath and pulled over, leaving his parking lights on. A man got out of his car and just stood immobile for several seconds in the middle of the deserted parking lot. He was wearing jeans, running shoes and a jacket with the collar turned up. He had a Chicago Bulls cap on. It seemed to him that the youth was looking his way, as if he wanted to make sure he had sized things up correctly. Next he saw him lower something over his face, a ski mask. He approached Hussein’s car with quick, light steps, opened the door and got in.

‘
Salaam Alekum
, Abu Ghaj,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I’m the number one man of group two and I bring you greetings from Abu Ahmid. Please excuse me covering my face, but it’s a safety measure that we all have to comply with. Only Abu Ahmid has ever seen our faces and is capable of identifying us.’

This was the metallic voice he had heard over the telephone. Husseini looked at him: he had the demeanour, the voice and the posture of a young man, perhaps between twenty-five and thirty years old, a sturdy build and long, powerful hands. Husseini had observed his movements as he was approaching the car and opening the door: loose, almost fluid, confident yet careful, and those eyes, gleaming from the depths of the ski mask, seemed indifferent, but were actually very intent upon checking out the surrounding area. This man was obviously an extremely efficient precision fighting machine.

‘It’s an honour,’ he said, ‘to work under the direction of the great Abu Ghaj. Your actions are still a source of inspiration throughout the Islamic world. You’re a genuine role model for anyone fighting in the jihad.’

Husseini didn’t answer, waiting for the man to continue.

‘Our operation is about to be completed. The three donkeys bought at the market in Samarkand are about to reach their destination. One of the three was on the truck ahead of you on the expressway, remember it?’

‘I do,’ Husseini confirmed.

‘Listen now, Abu Ghaj,’ said the man. ‘Group one will reach its destination in two days, group three the day after that, and group two . . . is already in position. The three donkeys can be saddled at any time.’

Husseini realized that his fears were falling into place. ‘Saddling the donkeys’ was evidently a coded expression for assembling the bombs. Presumably such language was thought necessary even in private conversation in case a bug had been planted in his car. Or was it just another florid expression of the rich Arabic language?

‘Abu Ahmid says you are to forward the message as soon as the final donkey is put into its stall.’

‘Three days in all,’ Husseini thought. The situation was coming to a head with unstoppable momentum. The megalomania of Abu Ahmid was about to reach unprecedented new heights. And yet Husseini still couldn’t understand why Abu Ahmid had chosen him and, more significantly, how he could be so certain that Husseini would carry out everything he was asked to do. He lowered the window and turned towards the young man seated next to him. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked him, reaching for a packet of cigarettes.

‘No,’ the young man answered, ‘but not only is it bad for your health, it is harmful for the people around you.’

Husseini shook his head. ‘Incredible,’ he exclaimed. ‘You think like an American.’

‘I have to,’ the other man answered, without batting an eye.

Husseini leaned back in his seat, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of the window along with a cloud of steamy breath.

‘What else did Abu Ahmid say to you?’

Oddly, the young man didn’t even glance at him; he simply reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

‘He told me to give you this and ask you if you know him.’

Husseini roused himself from the strange torpor he had slipped into and reached out to take the envelope, something he had not anticipated at all.

He opened it and saw that it contained three photographs of the same person, as a child, an adolescent and a young man.

The young man continued to stare straight ahead into the void of the black night. Once more, he mechanically repeated, ‘Abu Ahmid wants to know if you know him.’

Husseini continued to look at the photographs in silence, at first without grasping their meaning and then, as if struck by lightning, with an agonized expression, his eyes glistening. ‘It could be . . . but it’s not possible . . . Could it be . . . my son? Is that who it is? Is it my son?’

‘That’s who it is, Abu Ghaj. Abu Ahmid says it’s your son.’

‘Where is he?’ he asked with his head bowed, as tears began streaming down his cheeks.

‘I don’t know.’

Husseini tenderly fondled the pictures of the boy he had for so long believed dead. Many years ago, Abu Ahmid had sent him a little coffin with the unrecognizable remains of a child who had been mutilated by a mortar during the bombing of a refugee camp. He was the little boy in the first photo. It was thus that Husseini had always thought of him, wondering what he would have been like as an adolescent, as a young man, if only he hadn’t been cruelly denied his future. But in reality Abu Ahmid had kept the boy hidden away secretly for years, just waiting for the day when he could be used as a hostage . . . And now the day had arrived to force him, Omar al Husseini, to obey without question. That’s why Abu Ahmid was so confident that his orders would be carried out . . .

Now, with his son in the hands of the most cynical, ruthless man he had ever known, Husseini could not even consider suicide as a viable way out . . . He was trapped.

‘Abu Ahmid says that the boy is fine and not to worry.’

A tomb-like silence descended in the cold car.

It was the young man who again picked up the conversation. ‘Is something wrong, Abu Ghaj?’ His mechanical words rang with a tone of derision.

Husseini dried his tears on his sleeve and gave back the photographs.

‘Abu Ahmid says you can keep them,’ the young man explained.

‘I don’t need them,’ answered Husseini. ‘His face has always been etched on my soul.’

The young man took the envelope and finally turned to face him. Husseini was able to meet his eyes for an instant, but all he really encountered was an immobile, glacial glare.

‘Your soul is distressed but, believe me, what you feel is infinitely better than nothing, than complete emptiness. I’m about to die, perhaps, but I have never had a father or a mother, nor do I have any brothers or sisters. I don’t even have any friends . . . No one will mourn me. It will be as if I’d never existed. Goodbye, Abu Ghaj.’

He walked back to his car. After he had driven away, Husseini kept staring for a long time at the tracks his Reeboks had left in the snow, as if deposited by some uncanny dream creature. Finally, he started the engine and drove off.

W
ILLIAM
B
LAKE
descended slowly into the underground tomb, waited until Sarah had lowered herself down and then turned on the light. He started moving towards the place where he had been removing the debris and discovered the wooden board.

‘The secret of this tomb lies right here,’ he said, facing Sarah, ‘but before we go on, I want you to answer my questions. No one can hear us down here; Sullivan’s ears are full of the sound of the generator and the winch.’

Sarah leaned up against the wall and said nothing.

‘You knew we were in Israel and didn’t say anything to me. You are also aware that Maddox is involved in more than mineral prospecting. There were two armed men in battle gear with him last night when you got back and you were on his heels, shadowing him with the ATV right up to that point.’

‘Whatever I hid from you up until now has been for your own good. Knowing where we are would only have stirred up your curiosity, and that meant putting you in danger, given the circumstances.’

You could have helped me avoid a wild-goose chase. I thought I was in Egypt.’

‘Egypt’s only a few miles to the east

‘The Egypt I’m talking about is on the Nile.’

‘And knowing what Maddox is up to would only have made things more dangerous for you.’

‘I don’t give a damn. I want to know everything, and that means about you too. We’ve made love. Don’t you think it’s about time we levelled with each other?’

‘No, I don’t. And I still think you shouldn’t get involved in this business. You already have a mystery to solve. One should be enough for you.’

Blake glared at her. The situation was getting a bit tense and the air started to feel close. ‘If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll tell Maddox that you followed him last night and that you sneaked into his office the other day to copy some files from his computer.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Oh, yes, I would. Plus I can prove it, because I’ve got a copy of the master you reproduced. Believe me, it’s not worth the risk. I’m not bluffing, Sarah.’

‘You son of a bitch!’

‘This is nothing. I’m capable of much more.’

Sarah moved closer to him. ‘Do you seriously think you can influence me with your threats? Just keep this in mind, honey. You can’t count on anybody in this camp except me. If your presence happened to get a little inconvenient for any reason, no one would think twice about killing you and getting rid of your body under a couple of hasty shovelfuls of sand and gravel. Maddox wouldn’t bat an eye, and Pollock would gladly give him a hand.’

‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. But I didn’t have a choice about coming here.’

‘Sure you did. You could have stayed in Chicago, found a new life for yourself . . . but there’s no use talking now. Things are looking pretty bad around here. I’ll tell you what I can. Our government was planning a secret operation and had decided to use one of the Warren Mining Corporation camps as their base. One reason for this choice was the fact that Alan Maddox had worked for the government before becoming the manager of Warren Mining. The operation has failed, so to speak, although, as fate would have it, the actual goal was nevertheless achieved. Unfortunately, the entire matter has caused a great deal of resentment in the Israeli intelligence force – who happen to be indispensable to the American government in this country – because they were kept completely in the dark about the whole matter. At this point, no one trusts anyone any more and, besides, Maddox’s idea of having you work on this excavation has turned into a headache all round.’

‘Why did Maddox send for me anyway? Is it true that they really have financial problems or did you just make the whole thing up?’

‘It seems to have been simply one of Maddox’s brainstorms. He’s absolutely infatuated with Egyptology. I have my own theory: our government obviously guaranteed Maddox healthy remuneration for his efforts, but this money was supposed to be put into the company to save it from bankruptcy. When he discovered this damn tomb, he figured he could kill two birds with one stone, personally pocketing the proceeds from the treasures, apart from a more or less equal share going to Sullivan and Gordon. I bet they even tried to make some sort of deal with you.’

‘That’s right. But I didn’t go for it.’

‘The problem is that the whole situation in this part of the world is degenerating fast and we are in for some major trouble. There’s no more time for all your painstaking archaeological work. If you want my opinion, clear away the rubble from that damn landslide by getting the men to work day and night; catalogue your findings and get the hell out of here – if you can. When this whole thing’s over, I’ll look you up and we can enjoy some more peaceful time together and maybe even get to know each other a little better. Who knows? I’m still game . . .’

Blake remained silent, gazing into her eyes, trying to control his feelings, the fear and all the uncertainty her words had stirred up. Lowering his head, all he could muster was, ‘Thanks.’

He went back as far as the entrance and signalled Sullivan to send in the workmen and lower the winch.

Once again, he set about removing the rubble, but not without some major professional qualms. Each time he saw a piece of wood from the mysterious board hauled out on a workman’s shovel and tossed into the big dump bucket attached to the winch he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he had no choice. If he had opted to work instead with a brush and trowel it would have taken weeks and he realized that his time was drastically limited. He only interrupted the job for a half-hour lunch break, climbing up into the fresh air and sitting down with Sarah in the shade of the tent to eat a chicken sandwich and drink a beer. As he was about to go back down into the tomb, he noticed a cloud of dust approaching from the direction of the camp. Gradually he was able to make out what it was: one of the mining company vehicles. It pulled up at the entrance to the little work site, the door flew open and out hopped Alan Maddox.