Sphinx (53 page)

‘This is one of library’s great treasures,’ the old man said. ‘A notebook of Sonnini de Manoncour, the French naturalist and explorer who was part of Napoleon’s expedition in 1799.’

My heart began to race. Sonnini de Manoncour - I recognised the name. Instantly I was transported back to Goa, to the passion in Isabella’s face as she told me about the letter from Manoncour that Ahmos Khafre had shown her. I’d seen a copy of it myself in the British Museum and the ornate script I’d seen in Wollington’s office matched the hand that had inscribed the pages of this notebook. I felt myself starting to smile. Was it possible that the answer to the astrarium’s final journey had been waiting here for me all along? Perhaps even a way to both stop the predictive abilities of the device and erase my death date? Mina handed me the notebook, but my hands were trembling too much to hold the pages still. Frowning in disapproval, he gently took it back from me.

Mina’s wrinkled fingertip ran down the page. ‘You see here there are notes and little drawings. They are of a naos that he found.’

He pointed to a column of tiny ink sketches, each showing a side of a naos inscribed in a language I didn’t recognise, something much later than hieroglyphs.

‘The naos tell of an occasion when Queen Cleopatra received a present of a star teller, what you called an astrarium. ’ Father Mina searched my face for a reaction. I nodded, urging him to continue.

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘This astrarium is wedding gift for Cleopatra’s marriage to younger brother Ptolemy XIII from eunuch priest Pothinus. The naos tells us the history of the skybox.’ I nodded again to show that I was familiar with these facts. The monk turned a page carefully. ‘Sonnini de Manoncour wrote of this machine in letter to Napoleon, telling him that the skybox could give death as well as future, something a great conqueror would naturally be interested in. We had letter here too, but it was stolen by visitor to our monastery in 1943.’

‘Ahmos Khafre,’ I breathed.

The monk glanced at me sharply, his black eyes surprised, then suspicious. ‘You know Khafre?’

‘My wife was an archaeologist. She spoke of him.’ I kept my voice low and reassuring. Again, I had the suffocating sensation that the astrarium might be controlling my life, connecting the dots itself, pushing me along a trajectory I couldn’t see. Had it somehow lured me here?

The old monk pulled me towards him, his breath pungent against my cheek. ‘The letter to Napoleon was written but never delivered. Sonnini de Manoncour stayed here in 1778 - we have records of visit. They speak of a great excitement, a great discovery he was about to make. A hundred and sixty-five years later, 1943, just before the end of the war, when all was chaos, Ahmos Khafre came here to research Sonnini’s visit. But after he had some strange visitors he became very frightened. He stole the letter and ran. Maybe you know why?’ Father Mina looked into my eyes, his gaze direct and unblinking.

I shook my head, suddenly wondering if this was some kind of set-up: a trap to make me reveal the whereabouts of the astrarium.

‘I found the notebook after he was gone, hidden in almanac of botanical plants. I spend five years translating this notebook after Khafre left,’ Father Mina went on, turning the pages carefully. ‘I was sure it contain reason for Khafre’s betrayal. We were good friends, so for me a double betrayal. This naos Sonnini write about, it must be linked to letter to Napoleon. But this is most interesting of all . . .’ He pointed to a sentence on the last page of the notebook. ‘This word here means “poisoned chalice”. Pothinus, the eunuch priest who gave the astrarium to Queen Cleopatra, also attempted to have Cleopatra assassinated and to take over the throne himself, with twelve-year-old Ptolemy XIII - Cleopatra’s brother - as puppet prince. The astrarium is both a giver of fortune and a taker of lives. A poisoned chalice,’ he concluded dramatically, as if pleased with his own performance. I glanced back at the letter: my own death date seemed to dance between the hieroglyphs, taunting me.

‘Does it tell us anywhere about how to destroy the astrarium or even where it’s true resting place may be?’

The monk looked up at me, both startled and curious. ‘Nothing, my friend. Just that the skybox is a sacred object and belongs to the gods - Isis, to be exact. But do not be frightened, this is legend. Myth. I, for one, do not believe in the power of such objects.’ He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I tried to find the gesture reassuring.

‘I cannot believe that the prophet Moses used it to part the Red Sea. The prophet did not need magic. He had God on his side,’ Mina said simply, then smiled beatifically.

 

I retired early that evening, after watching the sun descend behind the ancient keep - debating whether I, like hundreds of monks who must have wondered before me, shouldn’t be standing guard at the top, scanning the desert for attackers.

The air was cooling now, and a dry desert breeze brought noises from the nearby village: sounds of children playing, a sudden car horn, a distant radio. Yet here, within the walls of the oblong enclosure, it felt as if time itself was suspended, hovering above a far grimmer contemporary world.

Back in my cell, I left the astrarium packed and hidden. If the dials were still moving inevitably towards my death it could wait until tomorrow. I rolled out my mattress and collapsed onto it, to sleep without dreaming.

I spent the next two days arduously trying to read Father Mina’s translation of Sonnini’s notebook. I was looking for anything, even the smallest clue, that might provide further insight into the astrarium. The work helped distract me from a mounting sense of panic as each day moved me closer to my predicted death. I decided that if I couldn’t find anything about how to stop the astrarium I would have no choice. I would have to go back to Alexandria and confront Hermes and Amelia, maybe even Hugh Wollington himself. It was not an attractive proposition.

There was little new information in the notebooks, apart from Sonnini guessing at the mechanics of the device, but there was one footnote that caught my attention. ‘Ame’ and ‘Ombre’ - the French words for Soul and Shadow - were written together beside the five elements that Ancient Egyptians believed made up a human soul. Sonnini had drawn a box - a little like a prison - around the two French words: as if they were trapped together, soul and shadow flapping wildly around in a cage. It looked like a whimsical doodle and it was bizarre to imagine the French naturalist bent over the page, quill in hand, drawing as he half-thought, half-imagined. But the small scribble disturbed me; the drawing of the box had an inked spiky malice that was haunting. Other than that, Father Mina hadn’t really opened up any new avenues.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a shy young priest, who informed me that my guest Moustafa Saheer had arrived at the monastery.

 

I went to meet Moustafa at the gates and together we hauled the magnetometer I’d asked him to bring with him into my cell.

Once in the privacy of the tiny chamber Moustafa wiped his sweating brow with the hem of his jellaba, then grinned broadly. ‘I knew you were a crazy Englishman but I didn’t think you were this crazy. You make a very convincing Copt. I would never have recognised you.’

‘And you make a very convincing fellah.’

I had only ever seen Moustafa in Western clothes or overalls. Despite his ethnicity, the Cambridge graduate looked amusingly uncomfortable in his jellaba.

‘At least this is my traditional dress, whereas you . . .’ He faltered. ‘My God, the excuses I’ve had to make to the company. They think you have gone a little crazy with grief. Lucky your reputation is so sterling.’

‘Just don’t ask me any questions,’ I warned. ‘I only need the magnetometer for a day. You can take it back with you tomorrow. Are you sure you weren’t followed?’

‘Followed? Don’t be ridiculous - who is going to follow a man trekking across the desert to get to his aunt’s funeral? Besides, I am unimportant in the big scheme of things. I like to keep it this way; unlike you, my friend, who must always be in the eye of the storm. But I have already promised - no questions. I had to see you anyway - I have wonderful news.’ He closed the cell door; now only the faint sunlight filtering in through the narrow window lit the room. ‘The geophysics have come in.’

‘And?’

‘They confirm the structure is huge - at least a billion barrels, almost all in the adjoining block.’

My breath caught in my throat and I looked at Moustafa wordlessly. All I could think about was the astrarium. It was as if it was playing a bad joke on me - showing me where to find great treasure yet leaving me, theoretically, with only days to live. Good fortune and death. Or maybe it was directing me somewhere by driving me back to the oilfield. If I simply allowed myself to follow the astrarium, would it lead me to the answers? A vague idea began to form at the back of my mind.

Moustafa, misinterpreting my muted reaction, put his hand on my shoulder. ‘My brother, I understand your ambivalence. The news about GeoConsultancy’s bankruptcy was in the financial papers this morning. But we are blessed - good fortune has smiled upon us twice.’

I glanced sharply at him. Was it possible he knew something about the astrarium? ‘What do you mean?’ I failed to keep the paranoia out of my voice.

Hurt, Moustafa stepped back. ‘Oliver, please, I am your partner, am I not?’

I put my hand out to reassure him. ‘I’m sorry. Lately I’ve been finding it hard to trust anyone. Tell me about the field. I am excited, really.’

‘Firstly, I have spoken to friends at the ministry. The government will lease the block to us for a reasonable percentage, and we can use whatever company we choose, so long as we can post a bond. Secondly, I have found an investor - a private individual who doesn’t want to be involved directly but will put up all the finance required for the project.’

‘All of it?’ I was shocked; it was virtually unheard of for one individual to fund an exploration. There simply weren’t that many people around with that kind of money. ‘Even without GeoConsultancy’s infrastructure behind us?’

‘He knows of your reputation, Oliver, and thinks very highly of you.’

‘How does he know of me? Who is he? Is he already in oil?’

‘No, he’s a private businessman, an Egyptian, but he’s lived most of his life abroad. Apparently this man, Mr Imenand, has immense wealth. He is well known in certain business circles within the Arab world. But - he wants sixty per cent of the licence.’

I walked to the window. The church bells had begun to peal and I could see the monks crossing the courtyard with calm, measured paces, intent yet tranquil. In here, we were engaged in a whole other realm. What kind of man would contribute millions of dollars to the initial exploration, all his own money? It was unheard of: the only explanation I could think of was that he must completely believe in my reputation as the Diviner.

I swung back to Moustafa. ‘I’m suspicious of people when I don’t understand their motives.’

He laughed. ‘Mr Imenand is an eccentric individual who wants to see this country developed. But he is also a shrewd businessman. I suspect he will be trying you out for future ventures. He is enigmatic but of excellent repute. We are fortunate that he wants to back us. Trust me, this is an amazing deal.’

He unrolled several survey maps and laid them flat on the mattress. ‘We executed the tests you wanted along the points you’d marked. Your intuition was right, except for one thing . . .’

‘Which was?’

‘You can see the large structure we had already identified here, but we also found anomalies at these two points, which suggests—’

‘A further reservoir below,’ I finished for him.

‘Exactly. Again, my friend, you have shown yourself to have the Midas touch.’

I scanned the new maps: two cross-sections drawn up from the seismic data, and a Landsat image. The change in geology was obvious; the anticline that indicated oil and gas trapped between rock strata was clearly visible. It was extraordinary that the potential oilfield hadn’t been discovered until now. But what was even more extraordinary was that there were two reservoirs. It was a risk, but intuitively something was telling me to take it. I was almost convinced now that there was a connection between the oilfield and the astrarium. Perhaps something further would be revealed about the device if I took it to the oilfield? Perhaps it would even stop working? I made up my mind. ‘I want to meet the man before I agree to trust him,’ I told Moustafa.

‘I can arrange a meeting in Alexandria - just give me a few days.’

‘It will have to be in the next three days, at a safe house, and I’ll have to travel there in disguise.’

Moustafa’s dark face was alight with excitement. ‘We’ll keep the people down to the bare minimum - Mr Waalif from the Egyptian Government Oil Agency, ourselves, and Mr Imenand. Waalif is discretion itself, and we need the EGOA involved - after all, we will be leasing their land.’