Exodus (5 page)
As an Ethiopian, Avi could physically pass for one of the Sudanese Muslim extremists and this was the persona he adopted online and in his business meetings. In Israel, he used his Jewish identity and this was the origin of his codename, al-Hirbaa, the Chameleon. He was part of a network of extremists, men he had met in the terrorist camps of Sudan with links into the Al Qaeda network. But mostly each pursued their own agenda, for there was much money to be made in this new world of terrorism. The global financial crisis, the Arab Spring and increased political upheaval helped to camouflage what was going on behind the news, an on-going battle for the Middle East.
When he had presented a business case to his financial backers in Iran, they had laughed when he had talked about the Ark. “
How can it possibly be found in such a short time?”
they had asked, for it had been lost for millennia. But he had convinced them with new studies and fresh leads, and the need to take a risk. For if Jerusalem went crazy during the Summit, the collateral damage would be considerable. He would whip up such a storm that the extremist Jews of Jerusalem would storm the Temple Mount to replace the Ark on the site of the Temple. It would spark a riot from the Muslims protecting it and with the tinderbox of international politics, it would be the catalyst to the next world war.
The terrorist organization had discussed the usual possibility of nuclear attacks on Israel, but it would be far easier, and perhaps more satisfying, to implode the country from within. For if extremist Jews stormed the el-Aqsa compound with the Ark of the Covenant and the intention of building a Third Temple, the Arab world would finally unite against them.
Avi’s phone rang. He rapidly activated the anti-tracking and voice alteration software before he clicked to answer. Natasha El-Behery's voice was calm and controlled.
“It seems we’re missing some information.”
Avi stayed silent. Seconds ticked by as he waited for more, a tactic he used to intimidate. Eventually it worked, as Natasha spoke again into the void.
“We can retrieve what we need,” she said, “but it will mean another trip to the Museum. It will be risky, given that security will be improved after the last attack.”
“Do it,” Avi said in Egyptian Arabic. “You’re already late and the schedule cannot be compromised. You accepted an accelerated timeline for the bonus payment so I expect fast results.”
Avi ended the call as the brush of his mother’s broom returned once more to its rhythm. He had found the perfect freelancer in Natasha El-Behery, someone skilled and passionate but also crazy enough to try what others thought impossible. He had met her at an extremist camp in the desert of Nubia in northern Sudan. She was hard and fearless, definitely on the edge of sanity. He remembered how one evening at the camp a man had told Natasha that she had no right to be there. She was a woman, unclean and useless. Without a word, she had turned away and the man thought he had won, laughing and gloating at her, making obscene gestures towards his crotch.
But then she had turned back, grabbing a machete and with a swinging blow, cut off his gesticulating hand. He had howled with shock and pain as the blood spurted from his wrist and he fell to his knees clutching at his wound, but she didn’t stop there. Shoving him backwards with her boot, she had impassively set to work with the machete, hacking his limbs from his body while he still lived. She didn’t speak, she didn’t flinch, as blood spattered her face and fatigues, turning her into a berserker of ancient times, a warrior consumed by blood lust. The sound of the man’s moaning was soon lost in the dull hacking of the machete and her heavy breathing, but no one tried to stop her. There were no rules in the desert camp of extremist loners.
When there were only gory lumps of flesh left, she held up the man’s head and spun around to the onlookers. One of the senior instructors started a slow clap and she had bowed slightly towards him. After that Natasha was respected and feared by the other men and Avi knew that this single act had established her reputation for ruthlessness. She had disappeared off the terrorist grid for a while, apparently caught up with some European project but now it seemed she was back in the Middle East.
So when his plans had been approved and funded, he had thought immediately of Natasha. Her father had been an archaeologist, her grandfather an antiquities dealer. She had the contacts but also the sufficient backbone to help him to achieve his goal, although he preferred to remain an unknown coordinator to her and keep her at arm’s length.
Avi turned his attention back to the news site, for he needed to release the still images of the murdered Arab youth and the video of the beheading, which he knew would go viral on the extremist sites. It was time to start feeding a media storm and he would stir up the city like a hornet’s nest. For in Jerusalem, there were always people on the edge of violence, those whose daily lives crushed them into mediocrity, but who, given a cause, would find the energy to rise up. Then the Falasha, his people, would go back to Ethiopia, triumphant, when Israel was dust.
Cairo, Egypt. 5.16am
It was shortly after dawn and Cairo was already gridlocked. Morgan felt disheveled from the flight but she wanted to view the scene before things changed too much, so the taxi inched her towards the Museum. She opened the window for some air, but the smog of exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of a polluted city gave her no relief. She shut it again rapidly. With over twenty million people crammed into high rise flats, slums and high density housing, Cairo was now the largest city in Africa. It was a diverse mix of people and culture, always on the edge of chaos, but also a city of dreams, where people fought for democracy against tyranny that had lasted for generations.
The motorway was packed, with donkey carts and motorbikes joining the throng of cars and trucks. In front of them, a cart piled high with cauliflowers teetered with every lurch forward to stay in the queue. It seemed incredible to Morgan that behind this mass of poverty was a city that had stood for over a thousand years. Cairo was called the City of Minarets for its Islamic architecture, but before that had stood the great metropolis of ancient Egypt, far removed from the modernity Morgan could see sprawled before her.
Finally the taxi pulled up in front of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Morgan paid the fare and turned to look at this famous landmark, a museum that had inspired many young archaeologists. She remembered how her father had talked of this place, where dreams of ancient civilizations touched the vaulted ceilings and the nightmares of dead gods lay in the shadows beneath. The building was the color of faded flamingoes, lit by the sun, a dull nicotine yellow, filtered through the smog of the city. Its funding had been stopped, as a new museum was being constructed near the pyramids, so this place was decaying even as a new one sprang to life. It was how Egypt had always been.
Morgan walked towards the imposing Neo-Classical entrance between the chipped sphinx statues, their mouths open to ask the traveler the ancient riddle of passage. Security guards sat drinking ‘qahweh’, the thick dark coffee that fueled Cairo. One raised a hand to greet her but they seemed uncaring of protocol or unconcerned about intruders, despite the murder in the museum and unrest in the city.
“Dr Sierra,” a warm voice called from the museum porch.
Morgan looked up to see a slim man in a cream linen suit with a striped shirt coming down the steps. With his black skin and lively eyes, she knew this must be Julius Kagame. He reached out his hand and she offered hers in return. His handshake was firm, his eyes meeting hers and she could feel his wiry strength even though he was only slightly taller than her.
“Jake has told me all about you,” he said with a grin.
“All bad, I hope,” Morgan smiled back.
“Not at all, but I’m sorry to say that I may be a poor substitute as a partner. Jake has all the brawn, but perhaps I have the brains?”
“You’re the local ARKANE liaison?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, I’m one of the agents here in Africa, although I’m usually based in the sub-Saharan countries. My rusty Arabic needed an airing and I wanted to be part of this for personal reasons.” Julius looked grave. “Is Jake still in a coma?”
Morgan nodded. “But I’m determined that I’ll be there to tell him we’ve got Natasha El-Behery when he wakes up.”
Julius shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “Jake is like a brother to me and we have history from before ARKANE. I owe him my life, so I asked to be the one to help you on this project. Together we’ll find this woman.”
Julius’s hands clenched, a nerve in his jaw twitching as he spoke, and Morgan could see that his passion for revenge matched her own.
“Is the murder scene still intact?” she asked, keen to get inside.
“This way,” Julius said, leading her up the steps into the Museum. “They’ve taken the body away and cleaned up the blood but it’s easy to see what happened, especially given the video footage. Come in, and I’ll show you.”
Given the spectacular objects inside the museum and the thousands of years of cultural history within, Morgan had been expecting a pristine environment. But this was Cairo, and the wealth of priceless ancient objects didn’t translate into practical cash for such preservation. Instead, the museum was disorganized and cluttered, with millions of objects displayed in a seemingly haphazard manner. It smelt musty, as if the dust of years still lay upon them.
Julius led the way and their footsteps echoed through the empty building.
“It’s still closed to the public,” he whispered, the atmosphere sobering. “But there have been leaks of what happened and rumors of evil that has been stirred up, so no one wants to visit anyway.”
“Why is it all so cluttered?” Morgan asked as she stopped and gently wiped a layer of dust from the top of a display case. There were labels in spindly writing on some of the objects but others just lay there, as if discarded in an old drawer.
“There’s so much here,” Julius said, “They just don't know what to do with it all. But come, I'll show you the Akhenaten room where the murder was committed.”
Passing through the great entrance hall, they entered a side room which Morgan recognized from the video footage. The smell of bleach hung in the air but it couldn’t completely mask the coppery tang of blood and the stench of emptied bowels that caught the back of the throat. Lights had been set up around the sarcophagus in the middle of the room, which was still stained with blood and body fluids where the gore had only been superficially removed.
Julius pointed at the staining. “They can’t just scrub it all off, because the sarcophagus is over 3000 years old.”
Morgan shivered. How many more of the dead in the museum were victims of such brutality? Increasingly she was beginning to feel that violence was just a part of being human, that death was just a moment of pain in a life full of it. She turned to Julius.
“Natasha carved an ankh symbol into the victim’s chest. Is that important?”
A new voice answered her from behind. “It’s one of the most well known ancient Egyptian symbols.” Morgan turned to see a figure in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the morning sun.
“It represents eternal life,” the man continued, “but also perhaps the shape of the river Nile with the delta in the north. It’s still preserved in the form of the Egyptian Coptic cross.”
He stepped fully into the room and Morgan saw him clearly for the first time. With a rash of dark stubble and wearing a creased jacket over a faded t-shirt, he was a modern incarnation of the Egyptian kings chiseled in marble close by. Julius walked forward to grasp the man’s hand in greeting and introduced him to Morgan.
“This is Dr Khaled El-Souid. He worked closely with the late curator on the Akhenaten period. Khal, this is Dr Morgan Sierra, specialist in the psychology of religion and my partner from ARKANE on this case.”
Khal stepped forward and extended his hand, which Morgan shook in greeting.
“I apologize for the interruption, Dr Sierra, but I heard your voices from my office and I want to help you find the murderer of my friend. Abasi was much more than a mentor to me.”
He spoke confidently in English with the hint of an American accent.
“You were speaking about the ankh symbol?” Morgan reminded him, trying not to be distracted by his movie-star looks.
“Of course. Interestingly, it’s also used today by the followers of the neo-paganist movement of Kemetism, who believe in reconstructing ancient Egyptian religion. You know, Egypt was a great empire once and we shall be again, or something along those lines.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “The woman who murdered your friend, Natasha El-Behery, referred to the need for sacrifice. Could that be related somehow to these Kemetists?”
Khal shook his head. “I don’t think so, as they are generally considered harmless. Although there are rumors of a more fundamentalist sect that still enact the rituals of the ancients.”
