The Sword of Moses Read online

  Ferguson slipped the small Sig Sauer P230 neatly back into its leather ankle holster and dropped his jeans down over it, covering it completely. It was so expertly concealed she had not even noticed it earlier.

  He nodded at Ava. “I can see this is going to be quite a trip.”

  Ava gazed at the pencil-like Learjet against the horizon. “It’s not just museum artefacts this war has carried far from home,” she spoke quietly to herself.

  While they had been talking, Prince had arrived at the jeep. She climbed in, folding her long frame into the cramped space.

  “What was all that about?” she asked Ava, having caught the end of the standoff. “Did I see you being threatened by one of our soldiers?”

  “Just a misunderstanding,” Ava replied as the jeep pulled away, looking over her shoulder to see the man in the blue shirt being transferred into another vehicle.

  “It’s a bit different here to running a museum, I suppose,” Prince noted sympathetically.

  “Not as much as you’d think,” Ava answered with a shrug. “The museum in Baghdad was founded by a woman—a good friend of Lawrence of Arabia. She had guns pointed at her more times than you can imagine. Times haven’t changed much. It goes with the territory.” She paused, turning to Ferguson. “Even for an academic.”

  “I can see why the Firm was sorry to lose you.” Ferguson was shaking his head with incredulity.

  As the jeep pulled up alongside the Learjet, Ava jumped out and walked ahead quickly, arriving at the aircraft’s small forward loading ramp ahead of Ferguson and Prince.

  As she started to climb it, she stopped and turned back to look at them both square in the face, her dark brown eyes flashing. “Before we do this, just so we’re clear. I’m here as an independent expert. I don’t work for any of you anymore.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  4

  Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations (Mossad)

  West Glilot Junction

  Tel Aviv

  The State of Israel

  "Sit down, Uri.” Moshe motioned him to a modern-looking brown leather chair in front of the large wooden desk.

  The lean young Mossad officer took the seat and looked across at the older man. It had been a few years since he had last seen him, but he never seemed to age.

  Moshe Stahl was a legend—a decorated veteran of the Six Day and Yom Kippur Wars, and one of the masterminds behind the Raid on Entebbe. He had been involved in training and selecting Mossad’s katsa agents for as long as anyone could remember. In particular, as a quasi-royal prerogative, he had the final say on all new recruits into the Metsada department. His instincts, honed by long years of experience, were the final word on whether or not a katsa had the aptitude for its black ops.

  Uri looked around the room. It was large, but simply furnished. Moshe’s desk was bare. Everything was locked away. There were no photographs, diplomas, or memorabilia.

  Moshe kept his private life at home.

  He was Old School.

  Moshe stood up and padded over to the single grey steel filing cabinet, returning with a brown manila folder. He laid it on the desk and opened it, thumbing through its pinned contents.

  “Still no computer, sir?” Uri asked. It was a longstanding joke in the Institute.

  Moshe looked up at him coldly, killing any humour in the air. “To read my papers, someone has to get into this building, onto this floor, and then into my office,” he replied. “Until the IT wizards can guarantee me that level of security on computer files, I don’t want one. And besides,” the corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, “if I leave a paper file on the Tel Aviv to Jerusalem train by mistake, I probably don’t have to tell anyone. But if it was a whole laptop … .”

  Uri smiled to himself. Moshe might be the same age as his grandfather, but his brain had not slowed with the years.

  “You’ve been in Europe for four-and-a-half years, Uri.” Moshe leaned back in his chair, staring at the younger man.

  Had it been that long? Uri wondered.

  In any event, he had been pleased to get the call from Moshe that morning calling him back to Tel Aviv. A summons to HQ usually meant something important was about to happen.

  “You’re clearly talented, Uri.” Moshe’s tone was now more genial. But everyone in the Institute quickly learned this did not mean he tolerated anything less than excellence.

  Uri thought back to his first European operation. His first job for the Institute. No one had ever suspected anything untoward about another heart attack at a nondescript nursing home in a poor suburb of Amsterdam. But then no one in the nursing home had ever suspected that the tetchy private old man on the third floor had once signed papers sending trainloads of Dutch Jews to their chemical deaths at Auschwitz II-Birkenau. Planning and carrying out the job had given Uri a lot of satisfaction.

  Moshe continued. “But you’re also unorthodox.” He looked at Uri over the file, glaring at him through his thick-rimmed glasses.

  For a moment Uri wondered if something had gone wrong, if there had been some fallout from his last job. He was sure he had covered his tracks well. Trapping the fugitive Algerian in Marseille had required him to break a few rules. But it had then been plain sailing to take him over the Spanish border in the boot of his car and hand him to the Americans in the small sleepy Pyrenean village. He was not aware there had been any problems. At the time he had been pleased with how well it had worked.

  The older man continued. “Fortunately for you, I don’t have any use for a yes-man who can recite the Geneva Convention. I need someone who doesn’t mind doing what it takes, and who has a record for getting the job done.”

  Uri had been recruited from a dead-end job in advertising. He had assumed the Institute would use his skill for twisting language in a succession of ‘diplomatic’ postings to far-flung embassies where he would sit in the basement writing cables and filing reports. But instead, to his surprise as much as anyone else’s, it gradually became clear he had a very real talent for the dark work of the Metsada section.

  He had been shocked at first. But he soon realized it made a strange kind of sense. He had always been drawn to extremes. He enjoyed anything that pitted him against the odds. He found the most satisfaction in solo physical activities—cross-country running, skiing, diving. Ultimately, anything where he only had to rely on himself. The work of the Metsada section allowed him a lot of leeway to be his own man. He liked that. They gave him jobs. He had to deliver. How he did it was up to him.

  Of course, he did not agree with everything. And he had no appetite for the politics, which he was happy to leave to men like Moshe. But the cold act of killing did not bother him. He had long found that people were hypocritical on the subject. Hundreds of thousands of men and women had killed in wartime, including many world leaders. As he saw it, Israel was at war, and he was a soldier. What he did was always sanctioned by the president. What more justification could there be?

  Now, after a string of successful operations, he could not think of anything else he was better qualified to do.

  “I’m putting you on a flight to Astana in Kazakhstan.” Moshe interrupted his thoughts. “There’s an African militia holed up there, playing a dangerous game with the Americans and British. I need you to go and make an assessment of how to gain possession of an asset they’re holding, then physically take it from them. You’re required to bring the asset back here.”

  Moshe looked at him sternly. “Usual rules apply. If you’re caught, you’re on your own. If you’re not, you will inflict on anything or anyone whatever level of damage you feel is necessary to get the job done. Clear?”

  Uri nodded.

  Moshe paused. “Exactly how religious are you, Uri?” The old man looked at him sharply over the top of the folder.

  Uri was unprepared for the question. He dealt with those sorts of inquiries every year in his annual performance appraisal, when the Institute tried to gai
n an insight into whether he was still a reliable member of the silent army. But he had not been expecting this sort of question today. It took him a second to get his thoughts together.

  “Never mind,” the older man continued. “Religion is for the young and the old. Not you.”

  “Sir?” Uri raised an eyebrow.

  “Shut up and listen.” Moshe closed the folder on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “How well do you know the old stories? Moses, the Exodus, wandering in the desert? Do they still teach it all properly in school?” Moshe peered at him closely. “What do you know of the Ark of the Covenant?”

  “The Ark of the Covenant?” Uri asked quietly. “That’s what we’re talking about here?” He was sitting still and paying attention now. This just got interesting.

  “The old rabbis say it went missing when the First Temple was destroyed.” Moshe paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “But they also say that back in the dawn of time, Solomon and the Queen of Sheba were lovers.”

  Uri had not heard that before. “King Solomon, as in David’s son, the builder of the Temple?”

  “Read the prophets, Uri. The book of Kings says King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. We can safely conclude that the pleasures of the bed were not unknown to him.”

  Moshe took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his large hands. “The story goes that the illegitimate son of Solomon and Sheba took the Ark with him to Ethiopia.”

  Uri was listening carefully now.

  “The Ethiopians have always maintained they have the real Ark,” he paused. “And maybe they’re right. Have you ever wondered about Beta Israel?”

  Uri nodded. “The Jews from Africa.”

  “Ethiopia, Uri,” Moshe scowled. “Details matter.” He flicked the corner of the brown folder with his thumb. “They have full rights of aliyah under the Right of Return. They’re as Jewish as you or me. We even sent the military in to airlift them here in ’84, ’85, and ’91.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be the lost tribe of Dan?” Uri asked.

  The veteran gazed into the middle distance before turning back to Uri. “It’s a mess. Maybe they’re from the tribe of Dan. Or perhaps they’re truly descended from the Jews who went to Ethiopia at the time of Solomon and Sheba. The State of Israel has no official view either way, except they’re true Jews, unquestionably entitled to full Israeli citizenship.”

  Moshe leaned back in his chair. “To make it more complicated, centuries ago, a group of them converted to Ethiopian Christianity, and they inherited the Ark. But they’re the most Jewish Christians you ever met. They’re more Jewish than most people in this building.”

  Uri leaned forward in his chair. “Why haven’t we ever tried to take the Ark back then?”

  Moshe nodded slowly. “We asked a few times, but the Ethiopians weren’t interested. It seems it’s very sacred to them. A sole monk has guarded it in a monastery for as long as anyone can remember now. Its presence in Ethiopia has been a core part of their Christian belief for centuries, and we have no political appetite for a major diplomatic rift with Christians over it. We rely on their goodwill for too many other things.”

  “But now an armed militia has taken it.” Uri could see where this was going.

  “Congolese.” The old man answered gravely. “And that changes everything. Now we have a chance to get it back without upsetting anyone important.”

  Moshe stood up, indicating the meeting was over.

  Uri followed him to the door. As the veteran neared it, he grabbed Uri’s upper arm. He leaned in close, and Uri could see the steel in the old man’s eyes.

  “Do you appreciate the implications of this, Uri, for us, if the Ark falls into the hands of the enemies of Israel? Do you understand how weak we will look, and the damage it will do? They’ll say our God has abandoned us.” The grip on Uri’s arm was vice-like.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Uri answered, keenly aware that religion and politics were inseparable in this country, where the people’s right to be there rested on a promise made to them by God.

  Moshe released Uri’s arm, and ushered him out of the door. “You’d better. That’s why I’m giving this job to Metsada. Don’t screw it up.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  5

  Grand Lodge of Ethiopia

  Addis Ababa

  The Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia

  Africa

  Grand Master Samson Kelile looked around his historic office in Addis Ababa’s old colonial Grand Lodge building.

  Behind him, in pride of place on the main wall, hung a large embossed warrant covered in ornate calligraphy and an array of imposing seals. It was dated 1941, when the British had been in Ethiopia helping patriot forces expel the Italian fascist occupiers. It was signed at the bottom by the Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of England himself, chartering the practice of Free and Accepted Masonry in Ethiopia under the authority of the newly created Grand Lodge in Addis Ababa.

  Kelile swivelled his chair round and looked at the elaborate document with pride, as he always did. Not only did it prove that everything was in order, that Ethiopian freemasonry was bound by an umbilical cord to the world’s premier Grand Lodge in London—but just as important to him, it had been presented to his grandfather, Ethiopia’s first Grand Master.

  Growing up, Kelile had been in awe of the ‘gentle Craft’, and the day his grandfather had initiated him into freemasonry in that very building had been the proudest of his life.

  In his turn, he had been thrilled to rise through the mysterious ranks of Entered Apprentice, Fellow Craft, and Master Mason. The ceremonies had been baffling and intriguing, but not nearly as bizarre and arcane as those he was to experience afterwards.

  When he became a Master Mason, he thought he had seen everything freemasonry had to offer. But after a few years he had been invited to join other freemasonic orders, where he mixed in increasingly exclusive and elite circles that most freemasons had no idea even existed.

  Six years ago, in recognition of his loyal service, his freemasonic brothers had bestowed the ultimate honour on him, appointing him Grand Master of Ethiopia, just like his grandfather. It was the achievement of a lifetime.

  Although at the time he thought he had seen it all, a few months later he had been invited into the ultra-exclusive Strict Rite Knights Templar of the Holy City. To his rising excitement, as he worked his way ever deeper into the order, he had gradually become aware of an inner circle at its centre—an order within the order. At first he sensed it only hazily, in glimpses, but it seemed to be somehow connected with the whole organization of freemasonry, from the top to the bottom. No one ever spoke to him about the inner order, yet he knew with increasing certainty it was there and it was real.

  Then one day he had been tapped lightly on the shoulder at a select gathering of the Strict Rite, and a discrete request was made. He was passed a telephone number, and asked to call it if ever a certain event occurred.

  He never thought it would, and he had thought less and less about it as the years went by. No one ever mentioned it to him again, and over time he had come to wonder if maybe someone in the order had been playing a practical joke on him.

  But he was not laughing as he heard the news on the radio about the blaze in the chapel of the Tabot, at the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum. There were no further details. But it was enough.

  He knew what he had to do.

  He gazed up at the solemn portraits of the Grand Masters who had gone before him. They were wearing their full ceremonial regalia, bristling with medals—or jewels, as they were called. He wondered if any of them had known when they joined the ‘Craft’ just how deep the waters of freemasonry ran. He certainly had not. But he was not complaining. Far from it. To belong to one of the most powerful organizations in the world was a privilege and an honour. Still more to be called upon as one of its trusted sentinels.


  He turned the radio off and walked quickly over to the safe in the far wall. Spinning the tumblers, he removed an envelope and opened it, taking out a small card before sitting back at his desk again.

  He placed the stiff white card on the shiny mahogany surface in front of him and stared at it for a moment before picking up the smoky black telephone receiver and dialling a +968 number in Oman.

  “As-salaamu aleikum, how can I help you?” The voice spoke perfect English.

  Even though years of making freemasonic speeches had cured Kelile of almost all nerves, he found himself needing to steady his voice. “I bring news from the East.” He knew that Addis Ababa was about one-and-a-half thousand miles south-west of Oman—but this was not a statement of geography.

  “What day is it?” the voice asked.

  “The 13th of October 1307,” Kelile answered without hesitation.

  “And who are you?” The voice spoke crisply.

  “A knight of vengeance.” Kelile knew the sequence of questions and answers by heart.

  “Do you bring anything?” There was a hint of urgency in the voice.

  “Fidelity and honour.” Kelile answered quickly.

  There was a pause. Kelile heard the phone clicking through to a different extension.

  Another voice—older this time. The English was again perfect. “Speak, Brother Kelile. Tell us your news from the East.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  6

  Yesil District

  Astana

  The Republic of Kazakhstan

  Peter DeVere of MI6 was not waiting for Ava when she arrived in Astana. He was tied up on official business all day, but had left instructions to be picked up outside the Zaraysk restaurant after dinner.

  As Ava’s car pulled up, she instantly recognized the figure standing just inside the restaurant, which was decorated as a kitsch Russian village house. She could even see a hay-cart near the door.