Pharaoh (17 page)

One in particular attracted his attention: a military parade commemorating Gulf War casualties. The parade was scheduled to take place in front of the newly restored Palace of Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon. At 5.30 p.m. on 13 January, in the presence of President al Bashar.

He turned off the computer, switched off the lights and went into his bedroom. The alarm clock by his bedside told him it was 2 a.m., on 4 January. Nine days, fifteen hours and thirty minutes to go.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, Gad Avner got home about midnight and turned on the TV as he often did to wind down a little before going to bed. As he was switching channels, he paused at the CNN news, and realized just how nervous the media was getting about the turn that events had been taking in Israel and the Middle East.

Vague hopes were expressed for a political solution, not forthcoming, to what had become an irremediable situation. But he, in the meantime, he, Gad Avner, commander of Mossad, had to take action. No matter what the politicians were up to. Time was running out and he still didn’t know what was behind Operation Nebuchadnezzar.

He turned to look out of the rain-streaked window and noticed that the little green light on his private line was flashing. He switched off the TV and picked up the receiver.

Avner.’

‘It’s the night porter, sir.’

‘Hello, night porter. Any news?’

‘Quite a bit, actually. I’ve discovered who the Americans are. A commando unit sent as support for an assassination. At Babylon. President al Bashar, during a military parade.’

‘Who will kill him?’

A group of Republican Guards, led by a certain Abdel Bechir. They say that his real name is Casey. His father was American, his mother Arab, and he’s totally bilingual. Something like the assassination of President Sadat in Cairo. But the powers behind the plan are different this time.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know. But it seems that General Taksoun will be succeeding him.’

‘Too predictable to be true,’ commented Gad Avner, perplexed. ‘Taksoun most probably won’t make it to 13 January alive. If I were al Bashar, I’d already have had him shot. Too capable, too popular, too open to new ideas, too well connected in diplomatic circles all over the Middle East. Here too. If al Bashar ever survived an assassination attempt, Taksoun would immediately be accused and executed, whether or not he was involved. Al Bashar is just waiting for an excuse. What else?’

‘The American SOF unit belongs to the Delta Force and is under cover at Mitzpe Ramon. They’re preparing for an air raid. In support of Taksoun, if it becomes necessary.’

Avner was struck dumb. It seemed impossible that the Israeli air force could have handed a training base over to an American commando unit at the Mitzpe range without him knowing about it. What seemed even more impossible was that the Americans were keeping him out of something so big. There’d be hell to pay for this.

He said, Anything else?’

‘Yes . . . sir,’ replied the other with some hesitation. ‘I haven’t mentioned it because it’s still completely unclear to me – inexplicable, actually, although at first I thought that it could be directly related to my primary mission. But I really don’t know what to think’

‘What is it?’

A dig, sir. An archaeological dig near an area called . . . Ras Udash.’

T
HE CAR STOPPED
in front of the American consulate general and the guard peered inside.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘The consulate is closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

‘I won’t hear of it,’ replied the man sitting on the back seat. ‘Announce me to the ambassador.’

‘Sir, you must be joking. It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

‘No, I’m perfectly serious,’ answered the man. ‘Tell him that Gad Avner wants to see him, immediately. He’ll receive me.’

The guard shook his head. ‘Wait here a minute.’ He dialled a number at the front switchboard and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end. He returned to the car with an astonished look on his face: ‘The ambassador will see you now, Mr Avner.’

The guard accompanied him to the building and led him into a little sitting room. The ambassador arrived, and it was clear that the unexpected visit had disturbed his slumber. He was wearing a robe over his pyjamas.

‘What’s happened, Mr Avner?’ he asked with an alarmed expression.

‘Mr Holloway,’ began Avner without any small talk, ‘President al Bashar will be assassinated at 5.30 p.m. on 13 January. Probably with your support if not on your direct orders. You’ve installed a Delta Force unit under cover at Mitzpe Ramon without asking for my consent or my opinion. This is completely unjustifiable and extremely dangerous in the light of the situation in which we find ourselves. I demand an immediate explanation.’

Ambassador Holloway acknowledged his accusations without protesting. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Avner, but the instructions I’ve received will not allow me to give you an answer. I can say that we are in no way directly responsible for any assassination plot, but that we are in favour of General Mohammed Taksoun taking over the reins in Baghdad.’

‘Fine, Mr Holloway. The damage is done, but I want you to realize that nothing can happen in this country – understand, absolutely nothing – without me finding out about it. Refer that to your president and to the CIA and tell them that no decision at any level can pass without considering the opinion of Gad Avner.’

Holloway lowered his head and did not dare to object when his guest nervously lit up a cigarette, despite the notice on the wall which clearly said: thank you for not smoking

‘What else is there, Mr Avner?’ he said, trying to mask his irritation at Avner’s blatant violation of the rules.

‘One question, Mr Holloway. Do you know what Operation Nebuchadnezzar is?’

Holloway seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I have no idea, Mr Avner. Not the slightest idea.’

Avner leaned close, enveloping him in a cloud of blue smoke, and stared straight into his eyes. ‘Mr Holloway,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that if you are lying to me I will do everything in my power to make your life here in Jerusalem very, very uncomfortable. You know that I will not hesitate to do so.’

‘I’ve told you the truth, Mr Avner. I give you my word.’

‘I believe you. Now, tell your superiors in Washington that I want to be consulted before any decisions are made about moving that commando unit you’ve got in the Mitzpe Ramon crater. And that they should start considering the possibility of pulling them out in very short order.’

‘I will do so, Mr Avner,’ said the ambassador.

Avner looked around for an ashtray and, not finding one, put out his cigarette butt on a Sevres plate resting on a console, further scandalizing the American ambassador.

Just then they heard a soft knock on the sitting-room door. The two men exchanged surprised looks: who could it be at that hour?

‘Come in,’ said the ambassador.

A consulate official came in, nodded to both of them, and turned towards his superior. A report has just come in for you, sir. Could you come with me a moment?’

Holloway excused himself and walked out behind the official. Although Avner had been about to leave, he took his seat again. The ambassador returned almost immediately, visibly shaken.

‘Mr Avner,’ he said, ‘we’ve been informed that General Taksoun has just arrested Abdel Bechir and had him shot, along with five Republican Guards, accusing them of conspiracy and high treason. The execution took place just after midnight at a barracks in Baghdad.’

‘That was to be expected. Taksoun knew that if the assassination attempt failed, there would be no way out for him. He has decided not to take risks and to put all his cards on the table. You have placed your trust in the wrong person, Mr Holloway, and now you have a number of dead people on your conscience and a traitor in your midst. Excellent results, no doubt about it. Goodnight, Mr Ambassador.’

Avner left and had a taxi driver take him to the Old City, where he got out and continued on foot. He passed alongside the Wailing Wall and stopped to look at the base of the Antonian Fortress. The cordons were still up and two soldiers in fatigues were guarding the entrance. So Ygael Allon was still digging through the bowels of Mount Moriah. Avner had been told that they would reach the Temple within a couple of days. He had instructed them to let him know when the time came: he wanted to be with them in that tunnel under the Mount which had borne the Throne of God and the Ark of the Covenant for centuries. He wondered, if this was somehow a sign, what would happen if the Diaspora were once again forced upon Israel. He crossed the threshold and disappeared down the dark hallway.

T
HE LAST COUPLE
of days had been so quiet that Omar al Husseini began to tell himself that perhaps the whole thing had just blown over.

He’d got back to his apartment at five and had sat down to take care of a few letters and prepare his lesson for the next day. The prints made of the microfilms that reproduced the first three lines of the Breasted papyrus were still on his desk. What could Blake have meant with that strange message? Husseini had asked to meet that evening with Blake’s assistant, the one who had gone with him to El Qurna in Egypt to search for the Breasted original. He was a young man from Luxor who had got his degree in Cairo and then won a scholarship to the Oriental Institute. His name was Selim, and he came from a very poor family of peasants who farmed the land along the Nile.

He arrived right on time, at six thirty, and greeted Husseini respectfully. Husseini made him a cup of coffee, then got around to the business at hand.

‘Selim, what do you know about the Breasted papyrus at El Qurna? Is there any chance it was authentic, or was it a set up to get money from Blake? It’s just you and me here, and nothing you say will go any further. There’s no need for you to lie—’

‘I have no intention of lying, Professor Husseini.’

‘Selim, Professor Blake has made an extraordinary discovery: an Egyptian tomb of an important figure from the New Kingdom, intact. But somehow this tomb has something to do with the Breasted papyrus. I’m not sure just how it may be connected, but the discovery seems very important. As you know, Selim, he’s always been fair and honest with you, and he still would be, if he were here. He lost his job, he was abandoned by his wife – a terrible thing for an American – and now this is his one chance to show the world that he is a great scholar. To show his colleagues that that they were wrong to kick him out. To show his wife that he isn’t a loser. Personally, I didn’t know him well at all, until I met him sitting outside on a street bench on Christmas Eve, half frozen. He was very grateful for the meagre hospitality I offered him, and I could tell he was a man of feeling, rare among these people who only think of their careers and of business.

‘Selim, listen to me well. Professor Blake seems to have found himself in very exciting, but very complicated, circumstances. I’m not sure I understand what has happened, but it seems that the discovery he has made is so important, and the mystery it involves so difficult to solve, that those who engaged him for this work are holding him prisoner. We are the only chance he has. Now, you have to tell me if you are willing to help him even though there’s nothing he can do for you. Not only can’t he further your career, but being associated with him might hinder it.’

‘You can count on me, Professor Husseini. What is it that you want to know?’

‘Absolutely everything you know about the Breasted papyrus. And whether it can still be found.’

Selim took a deep breath, then said, ‘I’ll tell you everything I know. It was about five months ago, around mid-September. Professor Blake had got a sizeable grant from the Oriental Institute for his research in Egypt and he had asked me to assist him in this investigation. I was born near El Qurna and I know everyone down there. You could say that the inhabitants of that village have been in the antiquities trade for generations and generations. Any scholar or researcher who has come through the area has had to come to terms with the El Qurna tomb raiders.

‘I have a dear childhood friend who lives there, a boy named Ali Mahmudi. We used to swim in the Nile and snatch fruit from the market stands together. Both of us were already interested in Egyptian antiquities before we’d even lost our milk teeth. One of his ancestors had accompanied Belzoni to Abu Simbel, his grandfather had dug the tomb of Tutankhamun with Carnarvon and Carter, and his father was at Saqqara with Leclant and Donadoni.

‘Our paths separated when my father managed to sell a set of ushtabi figures and some bracelets from a tomb of the Twelfth Dynasty and got enough money to send me to study at the University of Cairo. There I was awarded the scholarship that brought me here to the Institute, where I met and learned to esteem Professor Blake. Ali, my friend, continued to pillage tombs, but that hadn’t changed anything between us.

‘As soon as we got to Egypt he invited us to dinner. He didn’t say anything that was particularly interesting then, we just talked about old times and the adventures of his ancestors in the Valley of the Kings. After we had gone, he came knocking on the door to my room and asked me why I had come back and what I was looking for.