The Sword of Moses Page 10

  With her head finally away from the toxic smog below, she began gulping in huge mouthfuls of fresh cool air.

  As her lungs saturated her blood with oxygen and her heart pumped it quickly round her body, she could feel the nausea and dizziness starting to recede.

  She lay there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, staring blankly at the cold sky until her hammering heart started to calm.

  But she could not relax. She needed to move quickly.

  When she felt sufficient strength, she forced herself to stand up and head haltingly back to the stairs.

  Steadying herself on the handrail, she descended into the cabin again, and over to where Ferguson was lying.

  He was too big for her to lift, so she grabbed him by the wrists and, with more willpower than bodily strength, dragged him towards the hatch.

  As she reached the base of the steps, the hose now gone, she left him there to breathe in the chill morning air.

  After a few minutes, she could see the telltale rosy colour of the poisoning leaving his face as he started to breath more regularly. When at last his eyes opened and he awoke, she put his left arm around her neck, and hauled him up the stairs.

  The July morning was crisp and bright. There was no other traffic on the river, and the dilapidated wharf was still.

  There was not a soul in sight.

  Ferguson hung over the boat’s railings, coughing hard and sucking in air. Ava leaned against the wheelhouse, her eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  When she felt strong enough, she walked over to Ferguson.

  He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, and the rosiness in his cheeks had been replaced by an ashen pallor.

  She realized she must look similar.

  “Come on,” she croaked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Let’s get the blood flowing.”

  They stumbled off the boat and onto dry land.

  “I told you I didn’t need a babysitter,” she rasped, as they found their feet and began trudging along the quay. There was no triumph in her voice. It was a statement of fact.

  Looking around for any recognizable landmark, she saw in the far distance the large latticework white tower topped with the golden egg. She pointed to it. Ferguson nodded, too tired to speak.

  With resignation, they turned towards it, and began the long walk back into Astana.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  17

  Quedlinburg

  Saxony-Anhalt

  The Federal Republic of Germany

  Malchus headed fort he picturesque old quarter, the Altstadt.

  Ever since the pretty German town of Quedlinburg emerged from behind the Iron Curtain in 1990, it was permanently busy with sightseers.

  But now it was early in the morning—and the normally bustling central Marktplatz was empty. Later in the day, tourists would be sitting at the cafés’ immaculately laundered tablecloths sipping bitter German Kaffee and eating sweet cakes with lashings of whipped cream. But at this hour, all was quiet.

  Malchus glanced up at the aged and imposing St Benedikti church, with its small house halfway up the spire—a bizarre medieval sentry box for the town’s watchmen of old.

  If only they knew.

  He was keenly aware that, like so many ancient churches, it lay on the site of a much older tradition.

  At the corner of the picture-postcard Marktplatz he turned off abruptly into a maze of narrow medieval streets.

  He was oblivious to the blasts of wind rolling down off the rugged Harz mountains, and he ignored the clusters of antique houses expertly maintained by the Communists for so many years.

  He was not here for the tourist sites.

  Quedlinburg held other attractions for a man of his interests.

  He gazed up at the Brocken, twenty miles to the west—the highest peak in northern Germany. When the weather was good, tourists enjoyed its botanical gardens and narrow-gauge railway. But, as Malchus knew well, the mountain had a far more sinister side.

  For centuries, traditionalists had congregated there on its isolated and desolate slopes to mark Walpurgisnacht—the eve of Mayday: the cross-quarter day between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Local girls kept up the age-old spring fertility ceremonies by weaving ribbons around a maypole. Neo-pagans lit bonfires and celebrated their spring rituals. Malchus had been there many times, to the Devil’s Pulpit and the Witches’ Altar, where he had witnessed other darker and still more ancient rites that continued to take place there on that sacred night. Just as they always had.

  Walpurgisnacht was a hallowed time for those who followed the path. That is why the Führer chose it in 1945 as the evening on which to commit suicide a hundred miles to the north-east, in the doomed and febrile atmosphere of the Berlin bunker.

  As Malchus strode deeper into the Altstadt, his hard-soled leather shoes rang out on the smoothed cobblestones. Leaving the modern world ever further behind him, the medieval houses were now uniformly half-timbered Fachwerk, punctuated with low doors and small windows.

  Arriving at his destination, he stopped sharply. It looked at first like a residential house, although a small sign to the left of the door indicated it was a discrete shop: ‘Okkultismus’.

  He pushed the wooden door open. As he stepped down onto its cold stone-flagged floor, a small brass bell mounted on the doorjamb rang once.

  It was gloomy inside, and the air smelled faintly of bitter herbs, incense, and wax.

  Looking up, he saw a familiar phrase burned in gothic letters into a gnarled low black beam:

  HE THAT WALKETH FRAUDULENTLY REVEALETH SECRETS

  BUT HE THAT IS OF A FAITHFUL SPIRIT CONCEALETH THE MATTER

  Malchus noted approvingly that, unlike the gaudy tourist bazaars around the Marktplatz, this shop had no chrome and glass displays, no canned music. Instead, it was piled high with arcane books and objects.

  He looked appreciatively at the titles on the dusty shelves—De Philosophia Occulta, The Book of Abramelin the Mage, Arbatel of Magick, The Black Pullett, Corpus Hermeticum, Kybalion, The Lesser Key of Solomon, Necronomicon, Hermetic Arcanum, and others familiar to him for many years.

  He brushed past a table of ceremonial tools—knives, censers, lamps, and braziers. He smiled to himself, enjoying the fact this was not a place for teenage girls wanting glittery candlesticks or love spells. No. This place was for those who trod a different path. An ancient, more sinister one. And he savoured it.

  As he stepped to the back of the dimly lit shop, he breathed in the pungent smell of the incense packets bristling in a rack on the side wall.

  Reaching the oversized dark wooden counter, he noted there were no knick-knacks on it, no leaflets or posters. There was not even a cash register.

  Almost immediately, a short man came out from a doorway in the grimy back wall. His thinning grey hair was long, tied in a ponytail with a small black ribbon.

  The man took in Malchus’s hairless fleshy features, heavy eyelids, and bulky dark overcoat. He recognized his peculiar customer immediately. “Guten Morgen,” he nodded. “Please, a moment. I have your order.”

  Malchus did not acknowledge the greeting.

  The shopkeeper disappeared into the back of the shop again, returning a few moments later with a silver flight case, which he carefully laid onto the counter.

  “My sincerest apologies for the delay,” he muttered to Malchus. “But I think you’ll be pleased.”

  He flipped open the metal catches on the case, carefully lifted the lid, and turned the box around so Malchus could see its contents.

  Inside, on a bed of thick dark blue velvet, lay two round bronze discs, each three inches deep and ten inches wide. Countersunk depressions filled all but a small rim of their top faces.

  “Are the sizes exact?” Malchus asked, examining the discs closely. “Precisely?” His German still carried a slight eastern accent from his native Dresden.

  “Of course,” the shopkeeper nodded gravely.

 
“Exactly faithful to the drawings I provided?” Malchus stretched out a hand and picked the discs up. They were cold and heavy. “I must insist upon this.”

  The shopkeeper suppressed a look of irritation. “Yes, mein Herr. I know my trade. You are not the only one who has requested such things.”

  Malchus’s eyes shot to his. “You have made these for someone else?” His tone was sharp.

  “Of course not.” The shopkeeper gave him a placatory smile. “Not these. Different designs.”

  The shopkeeper looked down at the discs which Malchus had placed back in the flight case. “I guarantee you, this work is unique.”

  Malchus touched the discs again. All that mattered was that they were flawlessly accurate.

  The details were vital.

  The shopkeeper looked earnestly at Malchus, clearly sensing his unease. “I assure you, mein Herr, there’s nothing to worry about. The objects are completely faithful to your instructions. The delay was only because I wished to verify your drawings against the originals. I therefore had to obtain a high quality image of Dr Dee’s designs. Such a task is not easy in the case of a four-hundred-year-old drawing, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. You should not trust modern reproductions.” He nodded towards the inscription on the beam. Malchus read it again:

  HE THAT WALKETH FRAUDULENTLY REVEALETH SECRETS

  BUT HE THAT IS OF A FAITHFUL SPIRIT CONCEALETH THE MATTER

  Malchus was annoyed now. “What I gave you was precisely what I wanted.” He glared at the shopkeeper.

  The man looked back at him with respect. “And I changed nothing. Your drawings were flawless.”

  Malchus snapped the flight case’s catches shut. “I do not make mistakes.” He reached into his breast pocket for a small crisp envelope, and handed it to the shopkeeper. “As agreed, the second payment of one thousand euro.”

  The shopkeeper counted the ten notes, then slipped the envelope into his trouser pocket. “Thank you.” He reached for a ledger. “Would you like a receipt, Herr… .” He looked apologetic as his voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” Malchus replied, picking up the flight case brusquely and heading for the door.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  18

  US Central Command (USCENTCOM)

  Camp as-Sayliyah

  The State of Qatar

  The Arabian Gulf

  The military flight back to Qatar was uneventful.

  Ava’s experiences in Kazakhstan had left her exhausted, and she had been grateful for the opportunity to collapse into the hard seat and recharge.

  Her clothes still reeked of exhaust fumes, and she was a long way off full strength. But having devoured the steaming foil pack of chilli and rice the loadie had passed her, and then had some sleep, she awoke feeling more refreshed.

  When the plane nosed down onto the scorching tarmac at Camp as-Sayliyah, she was ready to face General Hunter.

  Prince had no doubt reported back to him, so he would at least be aware all had not gone according to plan in Astana. Ferguson had headed straight back to London, and would by now have debriefed with DeVere, who may have passed some of it on to Hunter.

  So what she had to say to him would not come as a total surprise.

  The plane door popped open with a click and hiss. Dazzlingly bright desert morning sunlight filtered into the bare cabin, followed by a rush of hot air which hit her hard in the face and throat as if someone had opened a large oven door. But after the dampness of Astana, she was pleased to feel the warmth.

  As she stepped to the door and looked out across the bleak desertscape of eastern Qatar, she could see a camouflaged figure striding towards the plane.

  It was General Hunter.

  Even at a distance, he towered over his surroundings.

  His expression suggested all was not well. “What the hell happened out there?” he bellowed over the deafening noise of the two tail-mounted jets powering down.

  Ava was taken aback by the tone of his question. “You’re asking me?” she yelled back. “It should be me asking you!”

  As she got to the bottom of the ramp, he ushered her into a green open-topped jeep heading back to the main building.

  After hours in a stuffy plane, she was grateful for the fresh air. The breeze was refreshing, and she was enjoying the wind on her face.

  “This wasn’t a complicated operation,” Hunter began, tapping his knee impatiently with his hand. “You’d better tell me what happened.”

  Ava felt the tension of the last twelve hours bubbling over. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she turned to him indignantly. “You came to me with a problem. I was very happy to help—”

  “Of course you were,” he interrupted. “It’s the chance of a lifetime for you—”

  She cut him off. “But I expected at the very least some professional assistance. So far, I’m pretty underwhelmed, General. Your team lost us at the outset. Someone thought it was a smart idea to double-cross the Congolese, which they didn’t take well. We were drugged, gassed, and left for dead.” She glared at him. “I may have been out of the loop for a few years, but even in my day that wouldn’t have been considered a model operation.”

  Hunter looked blank. “Double-crossed?”

  Ava nodded. “Something about a recce then an assault on the warehouse where the militia had been holding the Ark. So they changed the plan and took us to a boat.”

  Hunter looked surprised. “An assault? That’s news to me. I can assure you the order didn’t come from my office.”

  He looked at the airstrip speeding by for a moment before running a large hand over his close-cropped grey hair. “So did you get to examine the Ark, before it all came unstuck?”

  Ava shook her head. “The meeting turned nasty too soon. I never even saw it.”

  Hunter grimaced. “Well, so be it.” His tone was businesslike once more. “The RMF militia has now broken off all communication. You were the last person to hear from them.”

  He paused, changing tack. “If they were going to sell it, how would they do it?”

  Ava considered the question for a moment. “The world of antiquities attracts a lot of crooks. Objects are regularly stolen—often to order. Export permits are forged. Officials are bribed to turn a blind eye. It’s all done privately through brokers, away from the taxman. The sums changing hands can be immense, running into the tens, sometimes even hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “But if you were them,” Hunter interrupted, “who would you go to if you wanted to sell something like the Ark?”

  “Not so much who, as where,” Ava answered. “Black market antiquities obey a simple rule—they follow the money. If I was offloading an artifact as unique as this to a broker, it would have to be into Russia, the Gulf, or China. As it’s a Judeo-Christian object, I’d say one of the Russian brokers. They operate mostly out of St Petersburg, in the area around the Hermitage and the Nevsky Prospekt.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “But the RMF have a political agenda. They’re not looking for a straightforward cash sale.”

  “True,” Hunter nodded.

  “Then that’s the market for power and politics, not the art market. For that, they’d probably use a go-between to get access into Tehran’s government circles. I’d guess that Beirut, Dubai and London are all home to the right kind of fixers.”

  Hunter exhaled slowly, before pulling a card out of his top pocket. “Well, we’ve hit a brick wall for now. The militia has disappeared with the Ark, and there’s no guarantee we’ll see them again.” He gave the card to Ava. “These are my numbers. Call me if you hear anything—anything at all.”

  Ava stared at him in disbelief.

  That was it?

  The end?

  “You’re just walking away?” she asked, failing to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  Hunter raised his eyebrows. “Dr Curzon, we have many military commitments in thi
s region. Unless we get credible intelligence the Ark is real and the militia is on the verge of engaging with the Iranians, then I can no longer allocate resources to this. I’m handing the file over to the Defense Intelligence people.” He buttoned up the pocket he had taken the card from. “They’ll call you if they need anything, I’m sure.”

  Ava could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  Hunter massaged the bridge of his nose with his chunky fingers. “So you really think they have the original Ark from King Solomon’s Temple?”

  “I don’t know,” Ava replied quietly.

  The driver pulled the jeep up outside the large main building where she had first been briefed. Hunter nodded for him to kill the engine.

  He stared off into the distance, visibly troubled, before turning back to Ava. “There’s something else you should know. I’ve been in two minds whether to tell you.”

  Ava raised an eyebrow. Nothing Hunter had said from the moment she first met him had been dull.

  “We’re getting reports that the man behind the operation is a German, named Malchus. He was recently released early from serving a prison sentence in Turkey.”

  The name meant nothing to Ava.

  “He used to be a high-flying officer in the East German Stasi,” Hunter continued. “I know I don’t have to tell you what that means. When the wall came down in ’89, he went freelance, embracing the underworld of the new capitalism. By all accounts he’s an extremely nasty piece of work.”

  “If he’s the average eastern-bloc gangster-capitalist, what’s his interest in biblical artefacts?” Ava could not see the connection. “Surely weapons and drugs are more his line?”

  “Well, here’s the thing.” Hunter exhaled deeply. “The information we have says he’s into black magic and all that kind of stuff,” he grimaced. “And I don’t mean playing heavy metal records backwards and lighting joss sticks. He’s a highly dangerous man with heavy connections, and he’s deeply involved in some very twisted things.”