Pharaoh (39 page)

Khaled dropped the hem of his jellaba, which he had raised to his belt, letting it float back to the toe of his shoe. After taking a quick look inside the parked car to make sure that Sarah was asleep, he took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to Blake.

‘Selim wants you to read this alone,’ he said. ‘Stay out here. I’ll turn on the side lights.’

Blake crouched down on his heels in front of the car and with each line he read he felt the blood boiling up in his veins as he broke out in a sweat. When he had finished, he fell forward onto his knees, covering his face with his hands.

He felt Khaled’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ve still got a long road ahead of us.’

Khaled had him get into the car and then sat back down behind the wheel, ready to continue their journey, unruffled. The remotest outskirts of Cairo began to appear against the pearly grey sky around five in the morning, just in time to hear the eerie chant of the muezzin echoing stentoriously through the deserted city from the slender spires of the minarets, more like a call to arms than to prayer.

Khaled stuck to the more obscure winding streets of the sprawling metropolis’s suburbs. After what seemed to be hours of pointless, labyrinthine meandering, they stopped at the end of a dusty little street lined with shabby buildings made from reinforced concrete and bricks without any stucco, unruly metal bars sticking out here and there menacingly. The pavement was a disaster, more rubble than pathway.

Electric wires were strung along the unfinished walls like bizarre garlands and some of the pylons were still lying in the middle of the street, eloquent testaments to the totally out-of-control expansion and impossible urban planning situation of the largest city on the African continent.

Khaled pulled a big bundle of keys out of his pocket and opened the main door to the building, escorting his companions to the second floor, where he opened a door off the landing and showed them into a modest, rather barren apartment, which was nevertheless surprisingly clean and tidy, free of the usual gaudy frills that tend to clutter Egyptian homes. There was a telephone, a little television and even a portable typewriter on a desk.

Blake checked all the windows, one by one, to assess how the building was situated. Upon opening the door leading to the little balcony at the back of the apartment, he was surprised to see the imposing silhouettes of Giza towering in the distance: the tip of the enormous pyramid and the head of the Sphinx rose majestically out of the squalid grey sea of wretched hovels.

A shiver went up his spine. The monuments which loomed so suddenly before him reminded him of the same shapes, fashioned by nature, on the desolate landscape of Ras Udash. The circle had closed and he, William Blake, was the fragile point of union in this magical, ill-omened ring.

Khaled heated up a little milk and made Turkish coffee for his guests, but Blake drank only a cup of milk.

‘If you’d like to rest, there’s a bed in there,’ said Khaled. ‘I’ll wait up until it’s time to get Selim.’

‘I rested in the car,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll stay up with Khaled. Why don’t you get some sleep?’

Blake would have liked to stay awake as well, but decided to surrender to the incredible drowsiness that had hit him after drinking the warm milk. He was out like a light as soon as he hit the mattress.

He was awakened much later by a ringing sound in the dark, deserted apartment.

G
AD
A
VNER
leaned over the stainless-steel railing and let out a sigh as he looked at the enormous illuminated topographic model at the centre of the underground bunker. A giant virtual screen displayed the movements of the armed forces deployed in the field like some harmless video game. The realistic three-dimensional design of both the territory depicted and the various moving objects gave the observer the impression of being right in the middle of the action.

You could see the towns and villages where prophets had once preached: the heights of Gelboe, where Saul and Jonathan had fallen in battle, Lake Genezareth and the River Jordan, where Jesus and John the Baptist had once spoken, and, further off, the inviolable fortress of Masada, surrounded by the ruins of ancient Roman siege ramps and traces of military fortifications and bulwarks, a monument to that horrible human sacrifice offered in the name of freedom.

You could also see the Dead Sea encased by its shimmering salty shoreline, burial ground of Sodom and Gomorrah, and further out, at the edge of the desert of the Exodus, Beersheba, the dome of Sheol and the cavern of Armageddon.

At the very centre, between the waves of the Mediterranean and the Judaean desert, was Jerusalem itself on its rock, with its golden dome, the Old City wall and towers.

A voice interrupted his reverie. ‘Quite a toy, isn’t it?’

Avner found himself face to face with the imposing figure and unusually grim countenance of General Yehudai.

‘Look,’ he continued, ‘it’s obvious that the enemy’s efforts are directed at surrounding Jerusalem, as if they were trying to lay siege to it by cutting off every point of access.’

A young officer sat at the controls of an enormous computer, simulating, at the behest of his commander, the movements of armoured divisions and low-flying fighter bombers. The computer was able to elaborate any number of attack and defence scenarios for any area involved in a particular battle.

This was nothing like the Six Day War. The failure to make a pre-emptive strike on the enemies’ air forces while they were still on the ground had resulted in an almost even match between the opposing forces, degenerating – with every hour and day that passed – into a dangerous stalemate, with destructive artillery battles and constant bombardment by rockets from mobile launchers.

The continuing infiltration of commando squads into Israeli territory was demoralizing the civilian population and playing real havoc with the country’s communications system. The necessity of carrying out air attacks on all fronts was putting superhuman demands on the pilots due to their numerical inferiority and the lack of replacement personnel.

‘We’re in trouble,’ said Yehudai, ‘especially now that Egypt has joined the conflict. And things could get worse. We absolutely must deliver a devastating blow to our enemies now, before they are joined by new allies. If things start looking even vaguely hopeful for them, they’ll be lining up to jump on the victory wagon.’

‘You’re right about that,’ said Avner. ‘So far, Iran is providing only indirect support, quite satisfied with its conquests in Saudi Arabia, where it wants control over the holy places of Islam, but more radical, extremist forces could gain the upper hand at any time and press for direct intervention, especially if the threat that has kept the Americans and Europeans out of the conflict continues to function. Let’s not forget that the Iranians have sworn to take Jerusalem. Plus I’ve been getting reports that even the Islamic republics of the former Soviet Union are showing signs of unrest.’

He was silent for a while, as if lost in some disturbing thoughts and then went on to say, ‘What chance is there that we’ll have to resort to nuclear arms?’

‘It’s our last card,’ said Yehudai, letting his eyes fall on Beersheba, ‘but it could become inevitable. Here’s how it stands. We are trying to counterattack wherever the enemy has penetrated deep into our territory in the direction of the capital. By tomorrow, we should know if this counteroffensive has worked or not.

‘If we don’t manage to push them back, it means that the situation could worsen drastically in the following twenty-four hours, turning everything in their favour, pushing us to the point of no return. At which time we would have no other choice.’

Avner lowered his head. ‘Unfortunately, there’s no news from Washington. The situation in the US is still the same. They can’t locate the commando squadrons, they don’t know where the bombs are, and there’s no indication that anything’s going to change much for the better in the next forty-eight hours.

‘We have to rely on our own resources. The only person on our side seems to be the Pope, who has called for a cease-fire, but I don’t see much hope in that particular solution.’

Just then, the pneumatically sealed door of the bunker opened and Ferrario came in, visibly excited. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘the satellite listening equipment has just located an enemy communications centre within our national borders. According to the American experts, it could be the main nerve centre coordinating the entire Operation Nebuchadnezzar. If we hook our main computer up with the satellite, the location will be shown on our virtual war theatre. Watch!’

They went up to the officer at the control panel and gave him the sequence of commands he needed to tune into the geostationary military satellite and, in less than a minute, there it was: a little blue light began blinking on the three-dimensional map.

‘Why, it’s between here and Bethlehem!’ Yehudai exclaimed, dumbfounded. ‘Practically right under our noses.’

‘Between here and Bethlehem,’ mumbled Avner, repeating the geographical coordinates, as if scrolling down a series of mental files. ‘There’s only one son of a bitch with enough balls and know-how to locate a hostile communications centre right in the middle of Israel . . . Abu Ahmid!’

‘That’s just not possible,’ Yehudai snorted.

‘I beg to disagree,’ replied Avner. Then, turning to Ferrario, ‘Where’s Allon?’

Ferrario looked at his watch. ‘He should still be in the tunnel.’

‘Arrange for a meeting as soon as you can.’

‘Who’s Allon?’ Yehudai asked.

‘An archaeologist,’ replied Avner, turning round and heading out behind his assistant. ‘Someone who knows everything there is to know about Nebuchadnezzar.’

T
HE DOOR OPENED
with a slight squeak and a dark shape stood in the doorway: a tall man carrying a briefcase.

‘Selim? It’s me,’ he said. ‘I just got here.’

‘Why ask for the assistant when the professor’s in his office, Olsen?’ asked a voice from the darkness.

‘Who is that? Who’s in there?’ asked the man, retreating.

‘Don’t you remember your old friend?’ continued the voice from the dark room.

‘My God. William Blake. Is that you, Will? Oh, Christ, you really surprised me, Will. What are you doing here, in the dark? Come on. Stop kidding around. Where are you?’

A light bulb came on unexpectedly and Bob Olsen found Blake right in front of him. He was sitting on a torn armchair with his hands on the armrests and a gun lying on the table next to him.

‘Here I am, Bob. What are you doing in Egypt at such a bad time? Why here, in such an out-of-the-way place?’

Will, I was in Luxor, and the reason that I came here is because Selim promised to help me contact the US ambassador. You know, Will, I’ve managed to do a lot, just like I said I would. I’ve been looking for witnesses, for someone to testify on your behalf. I was even trying to clear things up with the Egyptian authorities and I think I was getting through to them. I promised you that I would have them reopen your case at the department, and I’ll convince them, believe me. If we can get out of this inferno, I swear you’ll get your job back. Everyone will just have to recognize that they were wrong.’

‘Bob, I can’t get over how much you’ve done to help this unfortunate friend of yours.’

Olsen was trying not to look at the gun, as if to demonstrate that it was not there for him, but it glittered insistently in that dim light. He looked around with a bewildered expression and the surreal situation began to erode his show of calm.

‘What do you mean by that? Why the sarcasm, Will? Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I swear—’

‘What I mean is that you betrayed my trust and my friendship in every way you could. You’re even screwing my wife, Bob. How long has it been going on?’

‘Oh, come on! You don’t believe that slanderous gossip. They’re only trying to—’

‘How long, Bob?’ repeated Blake.

Olsen backed away. ‘Will, I . . .’ A nervous tic caused his right eyelid to twitch convulsively as sweat trickled down his forehead.

‘That’s why you worked so hard to get me the financing. So you could have the run of the place while I was in Egypt.’

‘No, you’re wrong. I was sincere, I—’

‘Oh, that I can believe. You knew I was on the right track. In fact, you had a couple of your friends from the Institute in Cairo keeping an eye on me, and when you found out I’d made an appointment to see the papyrus, you sent the Egyptian police after me. So I would be out of the game and you could get your hands on it yourself. But something went wrong, didn’t it? They didn’t have the papyrus with them. In the meantime, it was all over for me, wasn’t it? Kicked out of the house, out of the Institute, out of your fucking way, right? The papyrus would pop up sooner or later, you thought, just a little patience and you could take the credit for the discovery. Just think. An Egyptian version of the biblical Exodus, the only non-Hebrew source for the most important event in the history of the East and the West. Not bad.

‘You would have become the director of the Oriental Institute, the successor of James Henry Breasted. Glory, popularity, lucrative editorial contracts . . . and Judy’s bed too.’