The Tower (29 page)

It was El Kassem who broke the silence. ‘What have you decided?’

Desmond raised his eyes to the sky, where the constellation Scorpio was glittering over the valley of Petra. His gaze was drawn to the pulsing red star of Antares and to the black space above it.

‘Philip is in great danger, alone as he is against Selznick,’ he said, ‘but I cannot go to Jebel Gafar. There’s no time. I’ll leave here tomorrow morning at first light. You go, El Kassem, and make sure that nothing happens to him. I’ll be grateful to you for as long as I live. He’s my only son, El Kassem. Don’t let me lose him.’

‘Nothing will happen to him as long as I am with him. But what about you? Where are you going?’

Desmond spread a map on the ground. ‘I’m going to try to work out the itinerary described by the man who wrote this letter two thousand years ago. I believe that he and his comrades were searching for Kalaat Hallaki and that they ended up in the Sand of Ghosts. The Tower of Solitude is there, I can feel it.’

When they had finished eating, they buried the dead so that their corpses would not attract animals during the night, then Desmond spent the rest of the evening poring over his maps, reading and rereading the words of Avile Vipinas and weighing them against all the secrets that he had wrung from the desert in his years of seeking and wandering. Among his papers was a drawing that he had made some ten years earlier that represented the Stone of the Constellations, the relic that Father Antonelli had shown him in the hidden recesses of the Vatican Library. He examined it at length, by lamplight, and then took a sextant from his bag. He raised it to the heavens and pointed it at Acrab in the Scorpio constellation. The star shone with icy light in the clear sky. El Kassem heard him murmur, ‘There’s no time left . . . There’s no time.’

F
ATHER
H
OGAN DISEMBARKED
in Tunis, where the papal nuncio was waiting for him with a car. Before getting in, he had watched as his luggage was unloaded and made sure it was carefully secured onto the roof rack.

‘It would have been a pleasure for us to have you as our guest here,’ said the nuncio, ‘but we’ve been told to accompany you to El Kef, to the Oasis Hotel. Actually, we’ve been given no explanation or further instructions. Quite an unusual procedure, if I may say so. The position I so unworthily hold would suggest that I be informed of every detail of any operation that the Holy See wishes to carry out in this territory, yet I have been told nothing. Perhaps you have been instructed to communicate with me directly regarding such a delicate mission. In that case, I would certainly understand . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Monsignor,’ said Father Hogan, ‘but I can tell you nothing. I myself have no idea of what awaits me at El Kef.’

The prelate fell silent as the car drove off towards La Marsa, heading for the interior. When the last houses on the outskirts of town were behind them, his taciturn companion had another try. ‘I see that you’ve brought quite a lot of luggage with you. Perhaps some equipment for a mission of ours here? Times are changing and technology has made such extraordinary progress that even we of the Church have to keep up with the latest developments, for the glory of God, of course . . .’

Father Hogan, who had opened his breviary, closed it again and turned towards the nuncio. ‘Monsignor,’ he said, ‘your curiosity – that is to say, your interest in this matter – is certainly legitimate and I understand it completely. But I have received explicit instructions from my superiors and yours not to say a word regarding the reason for this mission or the contents of my luggage.’ Then, noting the nuncio’s peeved expression, he continued. ‘You see, Your Excellency, if you want my point of view, just between the two of us, this obsession with secrecy has taken over all the chancelleries lately, and I fear it has caught on in the Secretary of State’s office as well, with due respect. All this secrecy may merely be motivated by banal customs requirements or something like that. I’m sure you’ve grasped my meaning. Sometimes, for the greater glory of God, as you have so rightly mentioned, it becomes necessary to get round petty bureaucratic or administrative obstacles by using methods and means that are not entirely orthodox . . . All to a good end, of course.’

The nuncio seemed content with this interpretation and said nothing more. He was comforted by the fact that the young Irishman spoke using the familiar, tortuous language of the curia, even though it certainly wasn’t, all told, much better than total silence. The car proceeded quite quickly along a tarmac road at first and then, as they went further into the interior, on a dirt track.

Every so often they would have to stop to allow a herd of sheep or a caravan of camels to pass, resuming their journey in a cloud of dust.

They arrived at El Kef towards evening and Father Hogan made sure that the porters carried his luggage to the room with the greatest care. He thanked the nuncio, who left to return to Tunis. Father Hogan had some dinner brought to his room, then retired almost immediately. The journey had been fatiguing and the African sun had already reddened his freckled Irish skin.

The next day he was woken at dawn by a knock on the door. He put on a robe and opened it to find an officer of the Foreign Legion standing there.

‘I am Lieutenant Ducrot. You are Father Hogan, correct? I’ll wait for you in the lobby. We’ll leave in a quarter of an hour. I’ll send two men to load up your luggage. You should get something to eat downstairs in the meantime. They make delicious crêpes here. If I were you, I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.’

Father Hogan washed and went downstairs, where Ducrot was waiting for him. The lieutenant’s men loaded his luggage onto a little truck and sealed it into a crate, after which they departed. The vehicle soon turned off the road onto a track that proceeded in a south-eastern direction to the Algerian border. After a little while, the officer pointed to something on their left and Father Hogan saw a military aeroplane waiting with its engines running on a beaten-earth strip bounded by empty petroleum drums painted red and white. They boarded the craft and journeyed for nearly seven more hours, flying over thousands of kilometres of desert in a south-easterly direction until the plane began its descent to another strip similar to the one they’d departed from, near a small clump of dusty palm trees surrounding a well.

Another Legion officer was awaiting them. He introduced himself as Major Leroy. ‘Welcome to Bir Akkar, Father Hogan. Please come this way. I’ll introduce you to the person who will be taking you to the zone you are interested in. He’s one of our best men, but he has recently suffered the loss of his entire unit in an exceptionally difficult operation, conducted in totally unexplored territory.’ He continued in a more confidential tone, ‘This will explain why some of his behaviour may seem unusual or even alarming at times.’

They entered a low, mud-plastered building that had been whitewashed. Major Leroy led him to a room where another officer was standing waiting, his back turned to the door. The room was simple and bare. It contained nothing but a desk with two chairs and a large map of the Sahara on the wall. On the opposite wall was an old print with scenes of Kabila folklore. The man turned as soon as he heard them enter. He was tall and thin, with short hair and a well-trimmed moustache, but his eyes glinted with signs of insomnia and his expression seemed to be that of a man used to living with nightmares.

‘My name is Jobert,’ he said. ‘Colonel Charles Jobert.’

‘S
IT DOWN,
F
ATHER
. You’ve had an exhausting trip and must be tired. Would you like a glass of Arabic tea?’

‘Yes, I would, thank you,’ replied Father Hogan.

Jobert opened the window and called out to a boy running down the road, then came to sit opposite his guest.

‘We’ve received instructions from our military authorities and our intelligence services to collaborate with you on an important joint mission. I must confess, Father, this is the first time that, as a military man, I’ve been asked to work with the Holy See. Consider me at your disposal immediately if you wish, although I expect that you would like to rest after such a long journey.’

There was a knock at the door and the boy entered with tea. Jobert poured the steaming amber-coloured brew into a couple of glasses and passed one to Father Hogan, who sipped it slowly and with great pleasure, although it was quite different from the blend he was used to drinking at the Vatican, which he had sent from London.

‘I’m really not all that tired,’ said Father Hogan, ‘and we don’t have much time. If you don’t have anything to suggest to the contrary, I’d prefer it if we begin to lay down the terms of our collaboration.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Colonel Jobert. ‘Well, then, if I’ve understood correctly, you want to enter one of the most impenetrable zones of the south-eastern quadrant. Is that so?’

‘Yes. And you’re the only man in the world who can take me there. Is that right?’

‘No, not exactly. There is someone else who has managed to reach the heart of hell and make his way back. His name is Desmond Garrett. We have not yet succeeded in contacting him, although we still have some hope.’

‘Would you go back out there if I weren’t asking you to?’

‘At the first chance I had. My soldiers were slaughtered out there, down to the very last man. I want to go back, suitably prepared this time, and settle the score.’

‘Who killed them? Marauders?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Try me. I’m a priest, so I’m used to dealing with the incredible.’

Jobert’s eyes twitched with a rapid, repeated beat. ‘Have you ever heard of the Blemmyae?’

‘The Blemmyae? But . . . they’re the stuff of myths! If I remember correctly, it was Pliny, in his
Natural History
. . .’

‘They really exist, Father. I met them. I saw them hack my men to pieces. I saw them charging and wielding their weapons even after they had one, two, three bullets in them. I heard the monstrous squeaking noises they make, more terrifying than the roar of a wild beast. Whether you believe me or not, they exist, and it is into their territory that we must go. It’s an inferno. There’s a temperature difference of fifty degrees centigrade between the daytime and the night. Not a blade of grass grows there. There is not a dry twig to be found. The wind whips up dozens of dust demons that writhe at the horizon like ghosts. Thirst is a fiery claw that rips at your throat. That’s where we’ll be going, if you truly desire it.

‘I’ll have fifty light cavalrymen with me, armed with repeating rifles and heavy machine guns, along with ten camels laden with water, food and ammunition. There’s a place where we can stop on the way, an incredibly beautiful oasis with plentiful water, fruits, every sort of crop. It’s called Kalaat Hallaki. People have always thought it was a mere legend, but it’s a real place, the most enchanting thing you’ve ever seen.’

‘I’m ready to leave, Colonel. I’m ready to follow you anywhere. We can leave tomorrow.’

Jobert noticed that Father Hogan was continually swatting at the flies hovering around his tea glass. ‘Flies. That’s all there is at Bir Akkar. Nothing but flies. They came in with the first caravan that ever stopped at this dusty hole and they took it over. They thrive here. We’re just like the flies. We’ve conquered Bir Akkar and we maintain control over this outpost. But we cannot grow, or multiply.’

Father Hogan noted the lost expression in his eyes in contrast to his sardonic smile. Sometimes it seemed as if he wasn’t even there; as if his eyes were chasing figments of a dream, or a nightmare.

‘All right,’ Jobert began again abruptly, returning to Father Hogan’s offer to depart immediately. ‘But there’s a pact between us. We provide complete logistic support and protection, and you agree to let us in on the results of your . . . experiment.’

Father Hogan nodded. ‘If there is a result.’

‘Naturally. Ah, yes, there’s one more thing . . .’

‘Selznick,’ said Father Hogan.

‘Correct.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jobert sighed. ‘We have learned that one of our officers, General LaSalle, the commander of the fortress of Aleppo, recently disappeared, quite suddenly, without leaving any trace. Strange . . . strange indeed.

‘What’s more, LaSalle was injured when he reached Aleppo. He had a deep knife wound to his right side, resulting from an ambush in which he lost his entire unit, except for one or two men. And this is very strange as well.’

‘The same thing happened to you, from what I’ve heard. Why do you find it so strange?’

Jobert started imperceptibly and his eyes narrowed into slits, as though they had been wounded by the blinding sun of the desert. ‘Because I know LaSalle. He would never have left his command post like that, for any reason whatsoever. And he would never have willingly survived the murder of his men.’

‘But you did,’ said Father Hogan.

‘Against my will and by pure chance. What’s more, I had a duty to save myself. I had been entrusted with a mission and I had to return to report the outcome. And there’s that wound to his right side that could only have been inflicted by a left-handed man. Like Desmond Garrett. A strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes. But pure conjecture.’

‘That’s right. But let’s get back to us, Father Hogan. We have been informed that you possess intelligence regarding Selznick that could be of vital importance to us.’

‘That’s right,’ said Father Hogan. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to talk during our long journey, but I can tell you now that Selznick is not his name. He doesn’t have a name, actually, or rather he has many. He was the child of rape. His father was a Hungarian renegade who became an officer during the reign of Sultan Hamid. But the identity of his father, although we have that information, is not very important. What is truly surprising is his mother’s identity.’

Colonel Jobert shifted on his chair, crossed his legs and lit a cigar. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.