The Tower

  ‘And how will you . . .’

  Father Boni made an eloquent gesture with his hand. ‘Not really a precise request, wouldn’t you say? I don’t see why our response needs to be any more so.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘There’s something else they’re very interested in.’

  ‘That is . . . ?’

  ‘They’re searching for an individual who seems to be very important to them. It just so happens that we have a great deal of information about this person. I’ll be telling you about that shortly. And then you’ll leave. As soon as possible.’

  ‘What do you mean by “as soon as possible”?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow at the very latest.’

  ‘I can’t. There’s no possible way I could be ready by then.’

  ‘There’s nothing to prepare. It’s all ready, even your bags. The trip has been booked. Your secretary will bring you your ticket and the money you will need tonight.’

  Father Hogan seemed lost in thought for a few moments. ‘All right, I’ll go,’ he said finally. ‘What time am I scheduled to leave?’

  ‘Ten in the evening. Now, Hogan, listen to me. The person I mentioned a short time ago is an officer who deserted the Foreign Legion. He calls himself Selznick. Some years ago, the Legion assigned him to collaborate with Desmond Garrett in research he was doing in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara desert. After an initial phase in which there were apparently no problems, the two of them became sworn enemies. Their animosity culminated in a sword duel in which Selznick was wounded in his right side. They say that he still suffers the consequences of that day; that the wound has never healed and has fuelled a deep, deep hatred.

  ‘In truth, no one knows Selznick’s true identity. Except us. This sealed envelope I’m giving you contains everything we know about him. You’ll give out this information a little at a time and only when you are certain you’ll be getting the support they’ve promised.

  ‘This evening, the Pope’s physician will be vaccinating you against the main tropical diseases, but I’m trusting that you won’t be exposed to anything dangerous. The desert is one of the cleanest places on earth. I’ll come to say goodbye before you leave.’

  Father Hogan left and returned to his own study. He picked up the telephone and began to dial a reserved number.

  ‘This is Father Hogan. I’m calling from the Vatican. I would like to speak with the marquis.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ replied a man’s voice, ‘but the marquis is occupied at the moment.’

  ‘Please tell him that I’ve called and that I absolutely must see him tomorrow on a strictly confidential matter. I will wait for his answer.’

  A few minutes later the same voice said, ‘The marquis will see you tomorrow at five o’clock in the evening.’

  THE NEXT EVENING at dusk, Father Hogan left, in a rented car and civilian dress, for an elegant quarter of the city. He stopped in front of a seventeenth-century gate guarded by a uniformed porter. He went up to the second floor and stood in front of a dark walnut door with no name plate. He rang the doorbell and waited until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The butler who answered wore a black dress coat and white gloves. He greeted the guest: ‘The marquis is expecting you, Father. This way, please.’

  Father Hogan followed him to a large study with parquet flooring and ceiling-high walnut bookcases, filled with both ancient and modern books. On a large solid-walnut desk which stood to one side, near the window, was an Art Nouveau lamp in the form of a semi-nude nymph bearing the green opal-glass lampshade. There was no trace, in the large beeswax-scented room, of any of the complex technical devices which had made the master of the house famous throughout the world. Near the desk was an antique globe, and Fra Mauro’s famous planisphere adorned the wall behind an armchair.

  Guglielmo Marconi entered a few minutes later through a side door. ‘I’m pleased to see you,’ he said. ‘I was sure you would have called. If you hadn’t, I would have called you myself.’

  ‘Mr Marconi,’ said Father Hogan, ‘I’m about to leave for the Sahara. I’ll be taking the apparatus you’ve built with me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Marconi. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow. But before I go, I have to find answers to several questions that are troubling me. Some of them concern you directly.’

  Marconi nodded. No emotion was evident on his face. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  ‘Father Boni summoned me about a year ago to assist him in research which, according to his own words, was of enormous interest and great importance. I accepted with enthusiasm and left my teaching position at the University of Cork. Now I find myself imprisoned in a nightmare, involved in an experience the conclusion or consequences of which I can’t even predict.’

  ‘I think I understand how you feel,’ said Marconi.

  ‘When we last saw each other that night in the Vatican Observatory, you told me to be careful, remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember very well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Father Boni never told me how he knew about that signal, or what he would do . . . later.’

  ‘And yet you worked for him in absolute secrecy, developing a futuristic apparatus. What do you expect in return for your silence?’

  ‘Nothing. Sometimes there’s no recompense needed for a scientist beyond the results of his work.’

  ‘But do you know what Father Boni is expecting from this endeavour? Do you know what use he means to put your devices to?’

  ‘That was never an issue for me. Father Boni is a man of God, as you are.’

  ‘You have not answered my question.’

  ‘What I know is that we are picking up a signal from space and that this signal is transmitting an intelligent message from a rapidly advancing source. Father Boni and I made a pact.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. Father Boni promised to share the contents of that message with me when he has deciphered it.’

  ‘Technology in exchange for knowledge.’

  ‘Yes, in essence that’s it.’

  ‘So, I’m leaving now, and I must find myself in twenty-eight days’ time in a precise place . . . the point at which the orbiting receiver will concentrate the final flow of information.’

  ‘I imagined that this task would fall to you. That’s another reason I told you to be careful.’

  ‘What could happen?’

  ‘No one can say . . .’

  ‘Father Boni told me that the apparatus I’ll be taking with me there, into the desert, is capable of fixing the message onto some sort of medium which will preserve it. It that true?’

  The scientist nodded but said nothing. He lasped into silence for a few minutes and Father Hogan noticed small drops of perspiration beading at his temple, as on the night they had spent in the observatory, listening to the signal that came from space.

  ‘You can count on me, Hogan,’ he said, finally. ‘Do what you’ve been asked to do and then bring everything back to me. Do you understand? Back here to me. Before you return to the Vatican.’

  ‘I will.’

  They walked towards the door and Marconi reached out his hand before opening it. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and stood there watching Father Hogan as the priest descended the stairs and until he had disappeared into the dark hallway.

  PHILIP FELT DEADLY TIRED but he continued his story, reconstructing every phase of his journey through Rome and Naples, up to the discovery of Avile Vipinas’s house. He told his father about the woman he’d met after passing through the Bab el Awa Gate, and what happened in Aleppo and Palmyra.

  ‘This is it, father. It’s the seventh tomb. This monument described in the papyrus I found in Pompeii, a cylinder topped by a Pegasus. When I saw that woman and the charm she was wearing at her neck, I realized that it had to be the image of the seventh tomb. It’s an unbelievable coincidence, I know. But how else can you in
terpret it? Look. There’s no doubt. It’s a cylindrical tower, topped by a winged horse.’

  ‘But we have no idea where it is.’

  Philip turned the jewel over in his hands and showed his father the words in ancient Arabic carved into the base. ‘You’re wrong. This charm comes from Jebel Gafar.’

  ‘Jebel Gafar,’ mused Desmond. ‘That’s over the border, in Saudi Arabia. I’m almost certain of it. It’s a desolate, unapproachable place. It seems strange that a similar monument could exist there. But Baruch bar Lev’s map is no help either. The seventh tomb is not included, but, if I remember rightly, he says to seek it in the southern desert. There’s something unconvincing about all this. The text that you found in Pompeii said that the Roman expedition had departed from Cydamus, right? And Cydamus is Gadames, in Libya.’

  ‘There’s a Cydama in Syria as well. That would fit with Jebel Gafar.’

  ‘But why did that woman give you such a gift?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but . . . it makes me hopeful,’ said Philip.

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  ‘I’ve thought of nothing but her since the moment I met her. I can’t get her out of my mind. That’s why El Kassem left me. I knew I had to follow her, at any cost, but he had prepared an entirely different route, and he went his own way. There was no convincing him. That’s why I’ve been acting on my own, without any help. I’ve risked failure again and again. My only real regret is Enos ben Gad’s death. If El Kassem had been at my side, we might have been able to save him. But I think I did the best I could. I did what I thought you would have done if you had been in my place.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Desmond. ‘The proof is that you’re here with me and that you saved my life.’

  Philip raised his eyes towards the horizon, where the pale light of dawn was beginning to show in the east. ‘But why did you put so many obstacles in my path? Why did you treat me like a child?’

  ‘Don’t you understand? The desert may have kept my body lean and made me tough and resistant, but I’m getting on in years, Philip. What if I fell along the way? I had to be sure that someone else could pick up where I left off and bring my mission to its conclusion, destroying the seventh tomb. You, Philip!

  ‘I wanted you to be the last hunter, but you were so far away. Far away in time, in space, in feeling. How could I hope to initiate you? How could I steel your mind and your body? How could I devise a tough enough test? I decided to set up an assault course for you, ready for the day when you decided to follow my trail. If you succeeded, it would mean that everything I had worked towards for my whole life would not have been in vain.’

  ‘Yes, but I might have failed. Didn’t you ever consider that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Desmond, ‘and that possibility troubled me greatly. But I’ve always thought that most human beings die as though they had never lived. I was certain that when you found the road I had mapped out for you, no matter how steep or how difficult, you would risk your life to succeed. That you would have been won over by the challenge. I did it because I think highly of you, son, because I knew I could trust you, more than any other person on this earth.’ He put his hand on Philip’s shoulder and Philip covered it with his own and squeezed it, for the first time in his life.

  ‘You were saying that finding that jewel made you hopeful,’ continued his father. ‘You’re hoping that the woman you met intentionally left it in your bag as a message, so you could meet up with her again at Jebel Gafar.’

  Philip nodded.

  ‘That’s possible, but all this reminds me of something else. Don’t you remember the story of Joseph the Israelite? He hid a gold cup in the sacks of wheat that his brothers had bought in Egypt, so he could accuse them of stealing it and thus hold his brother Benjamin hostage. There may be another reason for her wanting to lure you to that hell on earth. Stay on guard.’

  ‘You’re so mistrustful,’ said Philip, with a trace of resentment. He was thinking of his mother. Desmond too was struck by the memory of the woman he’d lost, and silence fell between father and son.

  ‘What else do you know about the man in the house in Pompeii?’ asked Desmond after a while.

  ‘Avile Vipinas was an Etruscan haruspex. He was the only survivor of that unfortunate mission, and he says he witnessed an event so horrifying that he was never able to speak of it again.’

  ‘As if he’d experienced some sort of supernatural phenomenon.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. And do you know what saved him? The sound of his sistrum. The instrument was still there, in that buried house, hanging at the entrance to the tablinum.’

  ‘My God!’ said Desmond. ‘But then . . .’

  ‘Exactly. The “earthquake bells” were actually the tinkling sound of the sistrum. The sound that you tried to have reproduced in a music box. Do you remember? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I heard that sound one night in the Franciscan monastery and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I knew that I absolutely had to find the source of those notes. I even went down once, during an earthquake, and I followed the sound from one tunnel to another until I got to that wall, and realized that the other side was hollow. But I didn’t have the proper tools with me. When I went back up to look for something I could use, I was informed that your mother had fallen ill . . . Where is the sistrum now?’

  ‘Here,’ said Philip, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. A flash of deep disappointment immediately crossed his eyes. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘The uniform jacket!’

  ‘Don’t tell me that . . .’ began his father in consternation. But he never finished the phrase.

  ‘Desmond Garrett!’ The voice echoed harsh and strident among the rocks of Petra, thundering down from above.

  ‘Selznick!’ cried Philip, shuddering. ‘How did he get here?’

  ‘Damn him. He must have followed you. Quick, take cover.’

  Philip grabbed his bag and ran off behind his father, who had already jumped into a deep hollow in the ground.

  ‘Desmond Garrett!’ shouted the voice again, and this time it came from another direction.

  Desmond fired three fast pistol shots and the walls of the crater multiplied the sound infinitely. The shots echoed in the hollow rooms of the rock tombs like roars of thunder. Desmond took off again at a sprint, followed by Philip. There was a ruin about fifteen metres in front of them that would offer better protection.

  The sky was just starting to lighten and against the pale horizon they could make out a group of bedouins on horseback who were scattering in various directions as if obeying precise orders.

  ‘My God, look!’ said Philip. ‘They’re trying to block every way out of here.’

  ‘Right. And then they’ll come for us. Are you armed?’

  ‘I’ve still got my pistol, but I don’t have much ammunition.’

  ‘Let’s see what we can do here.’ Desmond turned back towards his horse and whistled sharply.

  The horse whinnied and ran towards him, and they managed to pull him behind a wall before the bedouins’ shots could hit him.

  Desmond took a rifle and some ammunition from the saddle and began to shoot at their attackers, who were drawing closer as Philip buried his bag under the sand.

  ‘You get behind me and fire in that direction,’ said Desmond. ‘Don’t shoot unless you’re certain of hitting your target. We can’t waste a single bullet.’

  The bedouins continued to advance, covering each other, as Selznick shouted, ‘I want them alive!’

  Desmond and Philip kept up their defensive fire until they were down to their last bullet and then pulled out their blades. Selznick ordered the bedouins to surround them, then he advanced until he was close enough to speak to them.

  ‘Those whom death does not part are destined to meet again,’ he said from the shadows.

  Desmond did not see the grimace of pain that distorted Selznick’s features or the hand pressing against his aching side. ‘I don’t know what demon has saved
your life, Selznick,’ he said, ‘but don’t be fooled. Death is an old acquaintance who never forgets. It’s just a matter of time, you can bet on it.’

  ‘You’ll go before me,’ said Selznick. ‘I’ll live, and heal . . . when I’ve entered the sanctuary of the being who knows the secret of immortality and eternal youth. And now your son will tell me what was written on the other half of the papyrus!’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Desmond asked Philip in an undertone.

  ‘There was an argument that night between Selznick and the men who had brought him down to the underground room. The papyrus was damaged in the tussle. The photograph that I took a few minutes earlier contains the only integral copy of the text. It’s in there,’ he said, pointing towards the spot where he had just buried his bag.

  Selznick had drawn closer, flanked by two bedouin warriors who had their guns levelled.

  ‘I didn’t have time to read it, Selznick. I’d just found it when you walked in. It takes time to interpret such ancient script. Not just a few minutes. Days.’

  The sky in the east was light now and the valley was emerging from the shadows. Selznick drew his sabre and pressed its blade against his old enemy’s throat.

  ‘Don’t try to trick me, young man,’ he said, still facing Philip. ‘I know you have a copy of that text. Those long hours – days! – you spent in libraries did not go unnoticed. Search him!’ he ordered the bedouins.

  They found nothing on his person or in the pack he had left next to the campfire.

  ‘I told you,’ said Philip. ‘I don’t have it with me. It’s still in Aleppo. In the pocket of my uniform jacket.’

  Selznick cursed. ‘You don’t want me to cut your father’s throat after all the trouble you went to to find him, do you?’

  ‘Don’t tell him anything, Philip,’ said Desmond. ‘He’s a man without honour. He’ll kill us anyway.’

  ‘But not because of me,’ said Philip. ‘You’ll never get me to come down to your level, Selznick. I’ve no need for any photograph. I know that text by heart. What you’re looking for is a cylindrical structure topped by a winged horse. You’ll find it at Jebel Gafar, over the Saudi border.’