Sphinx (51 page)

‘Any long-term effects?’

‘Flashbacks, paranoia, delusions.’

‘Great - I was having those already.’ I attempted a wry grin.

‘There’s something else you should know.’ Rachel sighed tiredly. ‘I spent the best part of today interviewing various members of Sadat’s family for
Time
magazine.’

‘So?’

‘Well, just as I was leaving, an aunt of his told me that another journalist had visited them the day before, asking all kinds of strange questions about Sadat’s date of birth - whether the official date was correct, the hour exact to the minute, that kind of thing. At first, she said she thought he might be considering writing a biography, then she became suspicious because, although he spoke English and claimed he was writing for an American magazine, he looked Arabic - like a Saudi, she said.’ Rachel nodded meaningfully, in case I didn’t understand the implication. ‘She gave me his card and wanted to know whether I’d heard of him or the magazine.’

‘Had you?’

‘No, it doesn’t exist. Besides, I know every journalist covering this part of the world - the guy’s a fake. What I want to know is why anyone would insist on getting the absolute correct date and time of Sadat’s birth? That’s kind of weird, right?’

‘I can think of one reason.’ The image of the moment when I’d set the astrarium to my own birthdate came flooding back as well as Amelia’s ringing voice claiming that the astrarium could be used for both good and evil. Rachel, reading my expression, inhaled sharply as she arrived at the same conclusion.

‘Surely not . . .’

‘Rachel, the astrarium is legendary in its reputation as a powerful weapon of fate. It can also be used as a political symbol or abused—’

‘If it’s true that Moses used it to part the Red Sea,’ she said sceptically.

‘It doesn’t even matter if it’s true or not, as long as people believe it, and Prince Majeed certainly does.’

‘They must really believe it is capable of killing.’

‘You mean it can actually
kill
? How do you know?’

‘I’ve used it. Only in my case, it apparently passed judgement on me and my stupid attempt to defy it, and spontaneously gave me my own death date.’

She stared at me. ‘Oliver, you’re a scientist - you know that isn’t possible.’

It was a question rather than a statement. I didn’t answer her. The Seth-headed death pointer indicating my demise floated back into my mind. Rachel shook her head, then pulled out a newspaper from her bag.

‘There’s something else I wanted to show you.’ She handed me a copy of the
New York Times
. ‘It’s a day old. Isn’t GeoConsultancy the company you work for?’

I scanned the front page.

‘You might want to turn to page five.’ She opened the paper for me.

The article was headlined: OIL CHIEF DIES MID-FLIGHT. I read down the page:

Shock ripped through me. ‘This happened the night of the explosion?’ Ordinarily I would have put Johannes’s death down to eating habits and stress levels, but something about the coincidences made me uneasy. Rachel looked at me, her gaze firm.

‘Pure coincidence, Oliver, nothing else. Okay?’

I sat there, fear mingling with incomprehension. Johannes was such a large personality, it was hard to believe he’d actually died.

I began pulling on my clothes. ‘I have to find a phone.’

‘You can’t go out there!’ Rachel grabbed my arm. ‘It’s not safe!’

I held up my cassock. ‘I’ve been lucky so far.’

‘They’re going to catch up with you sooner or later. You’ve got to get out of town.’

Downstairs, the shop suddenly filled with the sound of men shouting. One voice was raised above the others - gruff, deep and aggressive. It was unmistakable.

Rachel looked at me, her eyes wide with terror. I indicated that she should stay quiet and grabbed the bag with the astrarium, quickly and quietly moving over to the window. Rachel was right beside me. Outside stretched a panorama of rooftops and terraces interspersed with squares of colourful laundry.

The voices downstairs grew louder - one man speaking English was audible above the others. With a jolt, I recognised the chiselled enunciation. Hugh Wollington. So he
was
in Egypt. Determined to stifle the fear shooting through me, I yanked the window wide open. Below us I could now hear Abdul arguing back. There was nothing I could do for him except disappear and hope he’d be able to talk his way out of trouble
.
We climbed out quickly, dropping the blind back as we left. Crouching, we scuttled across the tiled roof of the shop next to us as quietly as we could, then onto the next, never looking behind. I felt the blood roaring in my ears and heard Rachel’s laboured breathing behind me. Any moment I expected the hard nozzle of a gun to be pushed against my back. Suddenly I felt a tug on my shirt and wheeled around. Pushing a sweaty hand across her forehead, Rachel pointed to our left. A fire escape was precariously attached to an old brick wall, its steps leading down to the busy market street below. We half-slid, half-fell down them and onto the ground and were instantly engulfed by a wedding procession that had turned along our narrow lane. A deafening cacophony of drumming and horns filled the air, the guests dancing madly around the veiled bride and bride-groom who were being carried above them on golden painted thrones.

I was in jeans and a T-shirt while Rachel wore a caftan, her blonde hair, wild around her head, drawing curious stares from the jostling crowd.

‘We have to get out of here!’ Quickly, I glanced around to get my bearings. ‘This way!’ I said, grabbing her arm.

We pushed our way through the crowd to emerge finally at the other end of the lane, our shoulders and heads covered with flower petals and confetti. From there I knew my way to the only place of sanctuary left to me.

 

Father Carlotto ushered us deep under the cathedral and to a hidden room at the back of the crypt. We could hear the boys’ choir practising upstairs, the thin voices floating down in muffled soprano. The room was situated beneath stone arches that were obviously support structures for the building, and I had to bend my head to walk down the three stone steps into the small chamber. It stank of pipe tobacco and candle wax, and the white paint had begun to flake off the stone walls. By the light of the one lamp burning, I could see it contained a plain wooden desk with church records stacked behind it from floor to ceiling.

Father Carlotto switched on another lamp, his soft features transforming into sculptural planes as he leaned over it. ‘You are sure you weren’t followed?’ he asked.

‘We lost them back at the barber’s shop,’ I answered. ‘I think I know who they are. I just hope that Abdul, my friend, is able to persuade them that he wasn’t hiding anyone.’

The priest held his hand up. ‘I have promised you sanctuary; I do not wish to know anything else. Personally, I have always prized survival over martyrdom, but I have no immediate desire to be confronted with the choice.’

I noticed a large old-fashioned Bakelite telephone on the desk and wondered if it worked. Father Carlotto opened a drawer in the desk and, to my surprise, pulled out a bottle of Benedictine and three small glasses.

‘A Christmas present from Saint Benedictus,’ he joked. Rachel and I smiled weakly. It was hard to stop the rattling panic thudding through my body, even now, standing still. I reached out and took her hand, the heat of her fingers burning into my own. She was still shaking and I found myself regretting having involved her in the first place.

Father Carlotto filled the three glasses. ‘For fortitude. I suspect we shall all need it.’

The liquor burned a path from the back of my throat to behind my eyes, reviving me instantly.

‘So now, down to business. I know your situation. Without breaking my confessional discretion, I have spoken to Father Mina. He has agreed to talk with you,’ he said. ‘How long do you want to disappear for?’

I exchanged glances with Rachel. ‘I haven’t much time - I was thinking a week at the most. That should give me enough time with Father Mina, and to lose Mosry and his cohorts until I’ve planned my next move.’

The priest immediately held his hand up.

‘Please, I do not need to know who is after you. It is enough that you are being pursued. Besides, the church can shelter you for a week - as long as we agree that no questions are asked and no answers given. My Coptic brothers are closely watched; I do not wish to endanger them more than necessary. And if anyone comes asking, Mr Warnock, I do not know you.’

‘How can I thank you?’

It seemed remarkable to me that this man I hardly knew would risk his life to help me. At that moment I would have done anything to return the favour.

‘I do it for Isabella, for the confession I did not act upon, that is all. Although I pray that one day you may return to your faith.’

I grimaced. ‘I’m afraid I will disappoint you, Father.’

He chuckled and poured himself another glass of Benedictine. ‘We shall see.’

I glanced at the telephone again. ‘One last request - I need to make two phone calls. I can reverse the charges.’

He pushed the telephone towards me. ‘Be my guest. I promise this one is not tapped. The operator is one of my congregation.’

While Father Carlotto gave Rachel a tour of the crypt, I called the operator and finally got a connection to New York - to Ruben Katz, the chief financial officer for GeoConsultancy.

‘Ruben, it’s Oliver. I’m phoning from Egypt. I just heard the news - I’m so sorry.’

I meant it. As much as I’d disliked Johannes Du Voor, he didn’t deserve death.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s chaos here. Clients are ringing in left, right and centre.’ Ruben was a pragmatic individual, completely loyal to Du Voor. ‘I’m afraid the news is a lot worse than what’s been reported.’

I steeled myself. ‘Tell me.’

‘I finally accessed some subsidiary accounts that Johannes had been stalling me on for months. Turns out they had huge borrowings - all guaranteed by the parent company and signed by Johannes. The company’s in debt to the tune of twenty million, and most of it falls due in the next few months. We’re seriously considering filing for bankruptcy - Chapter 11.’

‘What about the Abu Rudeis project?’

‘You can carry on for now, but don’t make any long-term plans. Meanwhile, I suggest you start to think about your own future. But hey, you’re the best in the business, so I wouldn’t worry too much.’

‘What about the clients, the company’s goodwill?’

‘The clients care about the people in the field, Oliver. You know that. You want to go independent, you just holler. There are plenty of people here looking for a raft to jump on. Meanwhile, I have to figure out what I’m gonna tell the shareholders tomorrow morning. I tell you this much, it ain’t gonna be easy. I’m so sorry, Oliver. I should have seen this coming - Johannes had been acting pretty weird the last couple of months. Some of his recent business decisions have been . . . well, plainly . . . suicidal.’ I could hear another phone ringing in the background. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘
Wall Street Journal
has just rung in . . .’ The line clicked off.

I was stunned. I had imagined that Johannes’s increasing paranoia had been due to his lifestyle, his deteriorating health; I’d had no idea about the debt, the business difficulties. Quickly I dialled Moustafa’s sat phone out in the oilfield. Just when I was about to give up, he answered.

‘Moustafa?’

There was a silence; I suspected he was checking that the office was empty.

‘Oliver,’ he whispered then, ‘are you okay, my friend? Head office said you had gone missing. Mr Fartime is most concerned.’

‘Well, I’m alive, which I guess is good. Seems I’ve got something a lot of people want.’

‘Nothing is worth getting killed over, my friend.’

‘Do I sound dead to you?’

Moustafa laughed. ‘It’s good you still have your gallows sense of humour. But I need you here. The findings for the new oilfield look very promising. When can you come out and confirm them?’

‘Give me a week or so. But in the meantime, are you able to visit me in a couple of days?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Let me contact you. I’ll find a way of getting a message to you.’

‘I will wait with anticipation.’

It was great just to hear his voice; the familiar realities of the oilfield sounding out beneath it. I put the telephone down with great reluctance. As soon as I did, the now-familiar sense of panic swept through me: I was torn between the excitement of a possible new oilfield and the terror of being pursued. Then there was the ticking clock of my death date. I pushed my fears to the back of my mind and tried to concentrate uneasily on the task ahead of me. Had setting my birth date set my fate in motion in more ways than one? The sea tremor as Isabella uncovered the astrarium, extending as an earthquake out to the desert. The shifting substructures. The new oilfield, promising unimagined wealth. On the other side of the scale, my own life now hung in the balance. Johannes’s fortune had been tied into mine but he would also have made my life immensely difficult had I decided to go ahead with the new oilfield by myself, which would have confirmed his deep-set paranoia. Had the astrarium somehow fed on my ambitions and caused Johannes’s death, sacrificed him to clear the decks for me? Again, it felt as if I was in free fall, another reality imploded.

Father Carlotto came back into the room and interrupted my racing thoughts. Rachel followed him.