Death of a Pharaoh (37 page)

“When
did you ever wait to be asked?” Zach remarked.

“I’ve
got five hundred bucks that proves he’s right,” Ethan added.

“You
didn’t hesitate to save young Samuel from the pedophile and I don’t think you
should wait now,” said Tony.

Nkosana
looked at Mariam who was the only one still to comment.

“My
uncle would have wanted you to go, I vote with him,” she said with
determination in her voice.

“Kind
of sounds unanimous,” Nkosana declared. “That’s cool, I didn’t want to have to
drag any of your tired asses kicking and screaming through the desert.”

They
all laughed.

“The
tired ass part doesn’t apply to you,” he assured Mariam. ”I’d drag your….”

“Better
stop while you’re ahead,” Ethan advised.

“Ethan,
we’ll need to come up with an ironclad security plan,” Herbert stated.

“I’ll
get on it right away,” the Chief of Security assured him. “We need to keep
travel to a minimum, so I’d suggest that we consider leaving directly from here
rather than return to Dakar.”

Herbert
concurred, “Our latest intelligence shows that the Consortium is very active in
North Africa. With the failure of the operation in Dakar, they will be even
more determined.”

“Alright,
so it’s decided,” Nkosana declared, “We’re going to Timbuktu to convince the
Gods that evil is out!”

“We’ll
work on the message,” Herbert suggested wryly. “Once the plans are made, I’ll
coordinate from headquarters in Philadelphia and Ethan will be in charge of the
operation.”

“What
should we call it,” Tony asked.

They
all took a moment to consider a name.”

“How
about Operation Flail,” Zach proposed. “As in whip some Consortium ass.”

“I
like it,” Nkosana declared. “Now if you all don’t mind, I have a meeting to say
good-bye to Alex and Susan. Ethan, will you accompany me please.”

“My
Lord Pharaoh, I will take my leave now,” Herbert announced. “I depart for
London in an hour.”

Nkosana
embraced his Vizier warmly, “May the Gods be with you, my friend.”

The
flicker returned.

Alex and Susan stood and bowed as he entered the private
meeting room with Ethan two steps behind.

“I
trust you both slept well,” he commented, although he already knew that Alex
had barely closed his eyes before his wake-up call after an evening in the arms
of a handsome young waiter. Nkosana thought he was blushing.

“How
does it feel to be a king?” Susan inquired with her usual candor.

“Not
bad so far,” the young Pharaoh assured her. “So what are your plans?”

“I
wouldn’t mind staying for a while,” Alex chimed in with indecent haste.

“Thought
I’d head up to Cairo to see if I can get a position on an archeological dig,”
Susan offered.

Nkosana
glanced at Ethan who nodded his approval, “I was hoping that the two of you
might consider joining my team,” he announced.

They
were both stunned into silence.

Alex
spoke first, “I don’t know about Susan but I have a good reason to sign on.”

“That
reason doesn’t go by the name Adjo, does it?”

Alex
blushed again in confirmation that he was right.

Susan
tried to look shocked, “Jesus, Alex you make me look like Mother Teresa,”
although her tone suggested admiration. ”Count me in,” she added.

“Good,
I thought that would be your response,” Nkosana replied with a smile. “You’ll
report to Ethan.”

“We
are going to move both of you to a hotel in Cairo,” Ethan commented then
quickly continued before Alex’s face registered his disappointment, “Adjo has
agreed to go along as your interpreter.”

Alex
beamed.

“Can I
get a room on another floor,” Susan pleaded, “at least I’ll get some sleep.”
She punched Alex in the arm, mostly out of envy.

“What
do you want us to do,” Alex asked with sudden seriousness.

“We’ll
be travelling soon and the bad guys have eyes everywhere,” he informed them,
“we need your make-up skills for disguises and Susan you’ll be in charge of
wardrobe.”

“You’ll
have to tell your families that you’re taking an extended vacation but you need
to be discreet about your location.” Ethan warned.

“Alex,
give Ethan a list of everything you’ll need,” Nkosana requested. “Get plenty of
latex.”

Alex
glowed with pride. Susan looked like she was going to burst from the
excitement. Nkosana smiled to himself.

“I’ll
see you guys later.” The young Pharaoh rose to leave.

Ethan
followed him to his suite.

“Did
you get the report from Timbuktu?” he asked Ethan when they were alone.

“Yes
my Lord, the transfer of the bulk of the archives and the Pharaoh’s papyrus has
begun in secret,” Ethan confirmed. “All goes well.”

“Who
knows?”

“Only
you, me and the Chief Archivist.”

“Keep
it that way,” the Pharaoh ordered. “We were betrayed in Dakar. I don’t know by
whom but we cannot risk the loss of my only form of communication with the
Gods.”

Ethan
nodded in agreement.

“I’ve
been in touch with Pablo in Santiago de Compostela,” he added, “he is about to
return to Seville and expects that with the departure of his team, a move by
Sanctus Verum on the catacombs will be imminent.”

With
the excitement of the coronation, Nkosana had almost forgotten the reason for
the absence of the archeologist.

“Keep
me informed and let me know when you’ve finished the plans for our trip to
Mali,” he requested then added, “and Ethan, make it for my eyes only.” Nkosana
couldn’t get the flicker out his mind.

The Prince Albert, Private Gentlemen’s Club, The City,
London, November 15, 2016

James Fitzwilliams despised weakness. His father had been a man without
a backbone and it sent him to an early grave. The scandals occasioned by his
grandfather’s flirtation with National Socialism before the Second World War nearly
destroyed the family. He had continued to host known Nazi sympathizers at his
estate in Northumberland even after Germany invaded Poland. He was unapologetic
when the horrific details of the Holocaust stunned the world through grainy
news footage of sickening realism. His stubbornness was a weakness.

They would have
lost everything had he not been the 12
^th
Duke of Dunveran, a title
going back to the early 18
^th
Century. Despite his peerage, society
shunned him and he was soon forced to sell family heirlooms to avoid
foreclosure on the ancestral home. James understood his grandfather’s
fascination with Hitler and his iron grip over the German people. A firm hand
was not necessarily a bad thing; just look at Margaret Thatcher.

His father drove
the last nail into the coffin of the family’s honor. Crushing debts forced him
into a loveless marriage, a tainted Dukedom was still enough to attract the
hand of a wealthy industrialist’s daughter. He sought solace in the arms of a
young scullery maid who didn’t seem to mind his habit of dressing up in his
wife’s clothing. No one would have cared about his cross-dressing; God only
knew the nobility was full of effete hypocrites buggering their way through
private school. His real sin was falling in love with someone so far below his
station. A panel of his peers sentenced him to five years in prison for
corruption of a minor. The girl was only fifteen years old at the time. He died
a broken man barely a year after his release.

James later
discovered that one of the Lords who sat in judgment of his father had a
penchant for young boys and a lad of thirteen stabbed him to death in a public
park two years later. James hated them all with a passion. Their smug offspring
bullied him without pity from the day he started school; not that they lacked
ammunition. His grandfather was a Nazi lover, his father a transvestite and his
mother a vulgar arriviste. Ostracized and tormented, he soon learned to fight
back. He became cold and ruthless, the same traits that later made him such a
successful businessman. His father’s death gave him the title and his first
taste of real power. He was a duke and even the professors at university had to
address him as Your Grace.

His mother died
when he was twenty-two, leaving him a considerable inheritance. He was
determined to put it to good use. In only four decades, he created one of the
greatest industrial fortunes of modern time. All those who had tortured him as
a young boy now came to him to beg for loans or a piece of the action. He
reveled in charging them higher interest and on more than one occasion, he took
great satisfaction in seizing their estates as collateral for unpaid loans.
Revenge was like a drug for him. He grew so powerful that even Prime Ministers
conveniently forgot his family’s checkered past.

Fifteen years ago,
he began to develop his plan for domination of the global economy. He was
certain that capitalists could manage the world’s resources better than
governments and with more profit. He soon discovered likeminded individuals in
the rarefied circles of the elite and many of them commanded immense fortunes.
A dozen years earlier in the same private meeting room where he now sat waiting
for his appointment, ten of the world’s wealthiest investors, all of them among
the top 100 on the Forbes list of billionaires, sealed the pact that led to the
creation of the Consortium.

The plan was
simple; they would seek a controlling stake in a list of vital commodities then
create artificial shortages that would jack up the price. The discovery of the
model developed by the professor in Pittsburgh advanced their goals by several
years. They were well on their way to the realization of their plan when the
meddling black woman got in the way. What at the time appeared a momentary
obstacle in their path became a near disaster. The surprisingly
well-coordinated attack led by her grandson nearly wiped them out. It was the
first time in many years that he remembered what it was like to be stung and it
enraged him. In less than a week, he lost almost 78% of his personal wealth.
Those who bet heavier on gold faced bankruptcy.

Despite their
losses, they still had voting control at most of the companies in the portfolio
and all they needed now was an infusion of cash. Of course, the same banks that
came to him cap in hand up to a few weeks ago, refused to see him now as they
attempted to cauterize their own financial hemorrhaging. The desperate
situation forced him to hold his nose and reach out to unconventional sources
of capital such as the Russian mafia and even a pair of African despots.

His meeting today
was with a man named Luigi Gargiulo from Rome. He was a banker with a
reputation for laundering money for the Mafia, although never caught. James
didn’t care if the origins of the funds were illegal, he was only interested in
the amount they had available and the letters that the Italian forwarded from
leading banks around the world showed that he represented vast sums. Enough at
least to get the Consortium back on its feet. He was worried that they would
demand usurious interest or active participation. Last night, he met in secret
with his partners until the early hours of the morning to calculate how much
they could give up in tough negotiations. James was a bulldog but he knew he
was at a disadvantage. This was going to be the most important meeting of his
life. He would normally have had a scotch or two by this hour but he decided to
stick to soda water to keep his wits about him.

He heard a soft
knock on the door and the club’s head butler entered, “The gentleman has
arrived, Your Grace.”

“Show him in in
Geoffrey and bring us a bottle of Barolo,” he requested, “the Giacomo Conterno
Riserva Monfortino will be fine.” Luckily, his guest wasn’t French; it would
have cost him much more to order the best.

“The 2002?”
Geoffrey suggested.

“Perfect!” He
slipped the servant a 100 pound note. “As always, make certain there is no
record of the visit at reception.”

The butler took the money in his gloved hand and bowed with feigned deference
as he turned to leave. Geoffrey had never liked Lord Dunveran. He was a thug
with a title and over the years, he witnessed the many broken men who dragged
themselves out of the same meeting room financially bloodied and cowed by his
power. That’s why he hadn’t hesitated to accept the generous monthly stipend
offered by the American gentleman to report on the activities of the duke.

As ordered by His
Grace, there were no records of his meetings at reception but every shift
Geoffrey faithfully noted the names of his visitors and any tidbits of
conversation he overheard at the door. Today he had special information. He
knew the Italian visitor about to share a bottle of Barolo with his Lordship.
He was the same man who often met a compatriot in a previous club where
Geoffrey worked almost three decades ago. He was certain he hadn’t recognized
him as the young waiter who often served him lunch.

As a professional
butler, he was proud of his ability to remember names. The man he dined with on
numerous occasions was Roberto Calvi, dubbed by the press as God’s banker. They
found his body hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in 1982 in the midst of a
Vatican banking scandal. His death smelled of a mafia hit but Geoffrey was
certain the Catholic Church was involved. If they could murder a Pope, they
wouldn’t hesitate to kill a banker. Rumor was that Lord Dunveran recently
suffered a dramatic reversal in his business fortunes. It appeared he had
turned to the Vatican to bail him out. Why would the Catholics lend a hand?
Surely they had no sympathy for a British Duke and a devote member of the
Church of England. Geoffrey was positive that the American would find the
information most valuable.

James normally remained seated for most appointments, it was a power
thing, but on this occasion, he rose and waited near the door. It was not a
time for arrogance. The Italian was smaller than he had imagined, in his early
seventies with longs strands of thinning white hair assiduously combed back
then pasted with gel to create a semblance of coverage that only the owner and
Donald Trump believed. He wore his camel colored overcoat draped over his
shoulders as men from the continent often did and he didn´t even blink when
Geoffrey casually removed it along with his silk scarf. His brown suit with a
dove pinstripe had surely been crafted by a Michelangelo of the needle, a
vision of a shop he had once visited in Milan came to mind, and was accompanied
by an exquisite silk tie with a slightly risqué print that his father would
have loved. A gold tie clip with a vaguely Masonic symbol, a Gucci leather belt
and hand sewn Berluti shoes completed the impression of understated elegance
that was normal in Italy but the English would consider as a tad flamboyant.
His round face, undoubtedly the product of too much pasta, sported a pencil
thin mustache that reminded him of a character out of an Agatha Christie novel.

He bowed his head
slightly to James when he was introduced drawing out the ‘a’ in Grace with an
accent that screamed Naples. He was now even more convinced that the money was
from the Camorra.

“Welcome to London
Mr. Gargiulo, how was your flight?”

“Bene, grazie.
Other than the fact that Heathrow airport looks more like Karachi with each
trip,” he lamented.

James wasn’t
certain if the racist banter was a test so he ignored the comment, “I am
grateful for you coming on such short notice.”

“We are happy to
be of assistance.”

The butler
returned with the wine and while he opened the bottle and served two glasses,
they talked only of the weather and soccer. After letting it breathe for twenty
minutes, the Barolo was excellent.

The Italian was
the first to speak after the door closed. “My team of economists informs me
that your group is experiencing serious cash flow problems.”

“Nothing we can’t
overcome with some bridge financing.”

“So you believe
that your ambitious plan is still viable?”

“Absolutely!”

“I hope you are
right, your Grace. My backers have a strong interest in your success.”

“And who might
they be?”

The Italian stared
at his host for a moment as if weighing the value of showing his hand at this
stage of the negotiations. “I speak for the highest authority.”

“The Mafia?”

The Italian seemed
amused by his host’s error.

“Lord Dunveran,
even the Cosa Nostra lacks sufficient cash to fund your megalomania.”

He tried not to
show his annoyance at the implied insult. “Then who does?”

“The Vatican,” he
announced.

It was the last
thing James had expected to hear, “Why would the Catholic church want to help
us?”

“Let me just say,
there is a certain commonality in our mutual objectives,” he stated. “You seek
control of the world’s economy and we desire the same thing over men’s souls.”

“I don’t
understand.”

“We are aware of
the final stages of your plan that involve creating artificial shortages to
increase the prices of the commodities that only you will possess. We are also
cognizant of the probable effects including hyperinflation and mass starvation.
I must admit, it is a clever strategy.”