The Eye of Ra Page 41

  Hammoudi revived slightly. ‘I told you Karlman was behind the hoax,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but did you know the Club was actually a front for British intelligence, MI6 — it was run by a cabal of M16 officers — and only they knew what was really going on. The boss of the outfit, a guy called Ralph Bagnold, deferred to Karlman, who was evidently the Big Effendi. Now, I don’t believe Karlman was capable of fooling British intelligence, so the question is, what were M 16 doing in the Western Desert? More than looking for some legendary lost oasis, you can bet. And who was Karlman working for? Not CIA — it didn’t exist in those days, and not FBI — too far out of their territory.’

  Hammoudi scowled and bowed his head. For once, it seemed, he had nothing to say.

  ‘MI6 kept a file on the comings and goings of the Zerzura Club,’ I went on. ‘You know what it was called? “Operation Eye of Ra”. Now, why do you suppose they chose such a weird name? In 1989 a keen MI6 officer called Ronald Barrington got a sniff of something that wasn’t quite pukka and opened the file. Before he could get his teeth into it, the file suddenly disappeared and Barrington found out that it had been transferred to a set-up called MJ -12 — an American outfit that apparently deals with UFOs and alien contacts, so secret that it’s not even supposed to exist. Barrington was killed in a car crash the next day — and by the way that was his kid you shot dead at Kwayt. Now, why should an MI6 file be passed on to a Yank outfit, unless that outfit had been running the show from the beginning?’

  Hammoudi screwed up his eyes dismally. ‘What does all this have to do with Source Jibril, anyway?’ he said.

  ‘Somebody’s been tipping you off from the start. We’ve been set up at every step of the way. There’s no conspiracy charge for us to answer, Captain, because the whole thing has been incited by Source Jibril, and it’s no coincidence that Jibril also happens to be the name of the guy running a little outfit of “rich loony-toons” known as the Eye of Ra. Only they’re not rich loony-toons, are they, Captain? They’re a bunch of deadly killers, just as I said they were.’

  ‘If all you’ve got to go on’s a name, forget it — Jibril’s as common as muck in this country.’

  ‘A man known as Jibril was spotted by Hawazim spies at Kharja, overseeing the unloading of police troops. It sounds to me as if he’s run the whole operation.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘OK, but let me try a what if? What if your Source Jibril and the Jibril of the Eye of Ra are the same person? What if the Eye of Ra isn’t just a society that goes back to ancient times, but a facade, a front for something rich, powerful and foreign, which has managed to infiltrate the government of this country — something foreign which is deciding policy.’

  I spat the word out with all the venom I could muster — it had been Rasim’s reason for keeping me prisoner without charge.

  ‘Ross, you’re off your trolley,’ Hammoudi said. ‘All this because three men have the same name! It means nothing at all.’

  ‘OK, why did MI6 name their Zerzura op, “Operation Eye of Ra”?’

  ‘They can call an op any damn thing they want.’

  ‘Right, then tell me why the British Consul Melvin Renner and Abbas Rifad, the DG of the Antiquities Service were spotted entering the Eye of Ra Society’s office within half an hour of each other.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By my friend Doc Barrington, who was found dead in her flat the same day.’

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I read the report on Dr Barrington’s death. Suicide. She was a paranoid, as I told you. There’s no proof for any of the things that you’re saying.’

  I felt the anger rising now. I removed my glasses and rubbed them slowly on the hem of my dressing-gown, breathing deeply. Ronnie, Doc and David, I thought.

  ‘OK, there’s no proof,’ I said calmly, ‘but there are three implications. One, that British intelligence was searching the Western Desert in the 1930s for something big enough to sling a lot of cash at. Two, that the operation was being run by the Yanks, possibly by an outfit called MJ-12, whose agent, let’s say, was Aurel Karlman, and whose interest wasn’t in ancient tombs or lost oases at all.’

  ‘OK, that’s two, what’s the third?’

  ‘The third is that you’re not receiving your orders from your own government any longer, but from some foreign power, possibly the United States, possibly their proxies, most of whom you consider to be enemies.’ I stopped and fixed him in the eye. ‘And that’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it, Captain Hammoudi?’

  He glared at me and stood up. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘You’re going to fry for this, Ross.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘national security.’

  He gave me a last mystified glance, then turned to go. At the door, though, he stopped suddenly and turned back, leaning his long shanks against the door-frame. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you something,’ he said. ‘Our search team did spot a largish cave half hidden in the dunes not far from where you were picked up. They cleared it — found a drinking bowl, Bedouin type, a blanket, a saddle-bag and odd bits of junk. They also found a human skeleton there, female, they thought. Wasn’t much left — been there for years and the rats had been at it, but they found this among the bones.’ He held out a shiny object. It was an inlaid Agadez cross of the type worn by Tuareg nomads in the Sahara. I took it, turned it over and realised I’d seen it before. Often. It was the one my father had given Maryam when they’d got married. She’d worn it almost every day.

  You’ll find her remains in the cave where you left your friend.

  I smiled and suppressed an urge to leap with exultation. My mother had just given me back a bit of my life. Several bits, actually.

  ‘You know what it is?’ Hammoudi growled.

  ‘An Agadez cross. Worn by nomads in the Sahara.’

  ‘What would it be doing in a cave in the Western Desert?’

  ‘Maybe a stray Tuareg. Refugee from Libya or Chad. The Hawazim find their bodies sometimes.’

  I stroked the piece affectionately. ‘Can I keep this?’ I asked. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said.

  54

  I actually felt a touch of pity for Hammoudi as he slouched away defeated. And I knew he was right. It would have been better for everyone if I’d swallowed the hoax story. That was probably the way their predecessors had done it with Wingate, and Wingate had been wiser than me. He’d just pretended to accept the whole thing was a delusion and they’d left him alone. But the experience had never left him alone. It had tormented him for the rest of his life, and I’d have bet money it was them who whacked him in the end. I began to pace round and round the room restlessly, trying to think. What was it they wanted from me?

  ‘Such a waste, though, after we waited so long to find one. Through him we could finally talk to them. No more disasters like Roswell.’

  I hadn’t imagined those voices, I’d heard them, heard them discussing my fate while they thought I was unconscious.

  ‘ We can’t keep him like this for ever, and we can’t risk letting him go. Look what happened with Wingate. I say we eliminate him.’

  They’d made their decision. They were going to kill me. But they hadn’t done it yet, and I still had fight in me. What really worried me, though, was what they planned to do with Elena.

  I trod my room in circles, wondering desperately if my Hazmi gardener had managed to get the message through to my uncle. If I was going to fight this, I’d need help, and there wasn’t much time. I’d almost given up on Rabjohn — there’d been silence from him so long I was afraid he might be on the casualty list himself. Failing him, only my uncle and the Hawazim could help me now. I stood and watched the desert sunset until Thalwa brought the dinner. She smiled at me and nodded to the water jug, then walked out without speaking. When I lifted the jug, there was a hastily scribbled note underneath. ‘Your friend is on the Ground Floor room 23. Her condition is good.’ Ground floor! This building only
had two storeys, which meant she was right below me! I had the impulse to run out of the room straight away, drop the guard and dash downstairs to find her, but I held myself in tight check and calmed myself with deep breathing exercises. It might be a trap — an excuse for someone to shoot me whilst attempting to escape. I tore the note to small shreds and stuffed it inside my pillow case with the Valium caps. Then I sat down to think. The only real problem was the guard. The Valium might be the solution, but it wouldn’t be any kind of a weapon without something to disguise it in, I thought. I mean I couldn’t just walk up to the guard and say ‘Excuse me, would you mind taking this handful of Valium’. It had to be administered in some kind of drink — preferably hot and strong. Tea would be ideal. When Thalwa came in with tea, I begged her for my own kettle — it would save her so much trouble, I explained. She looked doubtful and clucked over it; ‘Bless me, I don’t know,’ she said, ‘what with boiling water and everything...I mean what would Captain Hammoudi say?’

  ‘No need to tell him.’

  ‘Sssh — they’re listening.’

  ‘Look, I’m not asking for a gun or something, and I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

  I didn’t really hold out much hope. After all, boiling water, even electric flex, might easily be converted into weapons. When she came back with an electric kettle, paper cups, tea, sugar and milk powder, an hour later, I was less surprised than suspicious.

  It had gone down way too easily, I thought. I kept my feelings to myself, though, tried to look delighted and kissed Thalwa until she retreated giggling.

  When she’d gone, I tipped the Valium caps into my hand and opened them one by one, pouring the white powder into a paper cup. There was enough of the stuff here to stun a horse. I slipped the primed cup in between two others. Then I went to bed, dozed off, and woke at about three in the morning — the ideal time for skulduggery of any kind. I padded over to the door and peered through the glass panel. The guard was sitting opposite, a shambling, heavy-boned young man with an olive-coloured face dis-figured by acne. He was sound asleep with his A K-47 across his knees. Perhaps I wasn’t going to need the Valium after all. I removed my plastic flip-flops and pushed the door gently. There was no sound. I pushed it harder and it creaked so sharply that the guard opened his eyes wide, grabbed his rifle and jumped up. ‘It’s only me,’ I said, ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, rubbing his eyes sheepishly, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  When I’d finished, I found him leaning on the wall, yawning. He looked about twenty, probably a conscript doing his three years of military service. I smiled at him and we walked back towards the room side by side. ‘Hard to stay awake at this time of night, isn’t it?’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t have your job for anything.’

  He glanced at me uneasily. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell anyone you were asleep.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘Captain Hammoudi would have me flogged.’

  I had his accent, now. He was an oasis-man from Dakhla. Near enough, I thought.

  ‘I know Hammoudi, he can be vicious,’ I said, ‘but the Mukhabaraat are all like that aren’t they? You’re what? Border police?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk to prisoners.’

  ‘Of course, I know that. I wouldn’t want to compromise you, believe me.’ We halted by the door of my room and I made a show of thinking deeply. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘why don’t I make you a cup of tea? That’d help you stay awake.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know...’

  ‘Come on. You know I’m a Hazmi? You’re from Dakhla aren’t you?’

  He beamed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know the dialect.’

  ‘We used to see Hawazim in the market all the time at home when I was small. I never had anything against them. Folk said they were dirty — pardon me — but they were always dead honest. A Hazmi’s word is his bond.’

  ‘So you know the custom: to a Hazmi, once you’ve eaten or drunk together, you’re friends.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll have some tea.’

  ‘OK.’

  When the kettle was breathing steam, I took the paper cup I’d laced with Valium powder and added a teabag and four large spoonsful of sugar. I left the tea to stew until the flavour was strong, then fished the teabag out.

  ‘God bless you,’ the boy said as I handed it to him.

  ‘I won’t make things worse by standing here talking,’ I said, ‘just give me the cup back once you’ve finished.’

  He nodded and I retired into the room, hoping it had all been out of earshot of whatever listening device they’d got switched on. I sat down on the bed and listened carefully. It must have been half an hour before I heard a soft ‘thunk’ of the guard’s rifle falling on the floor. I stood up and padded over to the door in my bare feet. He was sitting slumped in his chair with his eyes closed and his mouth open, snoring. I opened the door and this time the creak had no effect on him at all. The AK-47 lay on the lino at his feet and for a moment I was tempted to pick it up. But no, I thought, the weapon was too bulky to carry, and right now I didn’t need it anyway. I just left him where he was and crept down the corridor to the stair-head. There was a lift further down, but I felt safer with the stairs. Only one flight divided me from her, I thought. I descended the double-flight, pushed at the ground floor exit door carefully and peered along the corridor.

  There was no one about. Evidently, they didn’t consider Elena much of a security risk. I padded out along the row of doors until I found 23 and ducked inside. Elena was lying asleep on her side, her long dark hair foaming over the pillow just as I remembered it from Rabjohn’s. Her face looked deadly pale in the faint light from outside. I shook her gently. She moaned but didn’t respond. ‘Elena!’ I whispered, shaking her more urgently. Suddenly I caught a movement behind me. I tried to turn but before I could move a cold, hard metal object was shoved against the side of my head. The feel was uncomfortably familiar. ‘It’s no good, she can’t hear you,’ Hammoudi’s voice grated, ‘they’ve got her heavily sedated. Just like you did with that poor farm-boy upstairs. I approved the kettle myself, and I knew about the Valium, of course. Now, turn very slowly, Ross.’

  I turned and looked into Hammoudi’s exhausted face. The great dome head was furrowed with pressure and the eyes heavy with bags. ‘Sit down, Ross,’ he said, gesturing with the muzzle of his Ruger at a chair. ‘Don’t try anything. Believe me I’ll zap you if I have to.’

  I sat down. Shafts of light through the blinds illuminated his massive body in strips — but now the eyes lay in darkness. There was a rustle as he held out a slip of paper to me. I took it and lifted it into a beam of light. It was my note to the nurse: ‘Wayn sadiqati — Where is my friend?’

  ‘She did the right thing, of course,’ Hammoudi said, ‘she brought it straight to me. It was foolish, Ross. But in your position I suppose I’d have done the same. If you’d left it much later you wouldn’t have found her, though. In three days she’s going to be moved to a new facility in Israel.’

  ‘Israel?’

  He put the gun in his lap and lit a cigarette with unsteady fingers, the flick of flame encircling his great head for a moment in a halo of orange light. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, blowing out smoke, ‘it’s called detente, I believe. But you are a damned fool, Ross. I warned you. You should have kept your nose clean.’

  ‘What will they do to me?’

  ‘Since you’ve rumbled them, you’re expendable.’

  ‘And Elena?’

  ‘No, she’s very special now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s pregnant.’

  The word hit me like a bombshell. Elena was carrying our child, after all we’d been through, after everything! I remembered the night of the Shining. I’d sensed somehow it had been no passing thing, but a moment of true connection with eternity.

  ‘If you’re lying...�
�� I said.

  ‘I’ve no more reason to lie to you, Ross. Whether you believe it or not won’t change a damn thing.’

  ‘Why are they so interested in her?’

  ‘They reckon that this — whatever it is you’re supposed to have — will be passed on to your kid. They’ve given up on you, Ross. You’re too strong for them. So they’ll get what it is they want out of the kid.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘I don’t know. They had you under for five days before you came round properly, and they were doing something with you in that damned operating theatre — had you strung up to God knows what machines, and pumped you full of drugs. You can bet your ass that whatever they want, it’s something worth more than a few ushabtis. Something that could change everything —or more likely keep everything the way it is for ever with them on top. They want to make sure they’ve got it and no one else.’

  ‘How come you don’t know?’

  ‘Listen,’ he said morosely, ‘all my life I’ve fought for this country. I was a parachute sergeant in the Yemen fighting the royalists, did you know that? Led a special night-patrol they used to call “The Night Butchers”. I was wounded six times and won six bravery citations. When I joined the Mukhabaraat they called me an unbelieving Copt and a stupid Sa’idi. I never was one of them, but I endured it because I believed that this country was more than just them — it was all of us. I worked hard; there was no special recommendation for me. I outshone the lot of them. I caught terrorists and smugglers. I killed some, tortured, yes, but all for this country. My country. I’m an Egyptian. We were a great nation once, but for hundreds of years we’ve been raped by foreigners. I thought that was all finished. I was proud. But at the end of twenty-five years’ faithful service what do I find? I’m being given orders by superiors who’ve sold out to the damned foreigners.’

  ‘So the Eye of Ra is a facade?’