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.’
12
‘SIT DOWN, FATHER. 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, witho
ut 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.
From outside came the cries of camel drivers from a caravan that had got as far as that lonely outpost and were drawing water for themselves and their exhausted animals. The aeroplane that had brought Father Hogan to Bir Akkar was lifting off at that very moment against the setting sun. It made a wide turn and headed north. The young priest followed it for a while with his eyes and, when he saw it disappear into the twilight, he felt his heart sink.
‘I’d prefer to talk about it another time,’ he said.
SELZNICK’S COLUMN advanced through the blinding light of the Arabian desert, over a flat, uniform expanse in an absolutely motionless atmosphere. There was not a single well on the entire route to Jebel Gafar, and both the men and the animals were still drinking sparingly the water drawn from the well at Petra.
One of his bedouins belonged to a tribe from the south and had fought against the Turks in the last war. He knew the way to Jebel Gafar although he had never been that far. No caravan routes passed through the place, and there was said to be no water on the way in or on any of the ways out.
When they came within view of the first heights, Selznick assembled the men and had them split into a number of small groups, both so that they’d be less noticeable to anyone who might be in the area and so that they could take off in different directions to search for an object that he described to them carefully: a tower topped by a winged horse.
Selznick waited in a gorge between two hills where the erosion had created deep furrows that provided a little shade in the oblique rays of the setting sun. One by one, the squads returned to report that they had seen nothing corresponding to his description. These men were trained to discern every last detail of the desert terrain, and there was no reason to doubt their judgement. If Desmond Garrett was still alive upon their return, he would pay for this idiotic prank.
Selznick decided nonetheless to spend the night there and make another attempt the following morning. The night sky was extraordinarily clear and a full moon was rising on the western horizon, flooding the plain with a crystalline glow that highlighted every stone and rock on the uniform backdrop of the vast dusty wasteland. He distanced himself from the men, who were gathered around the campfire, well aware that the sight of his solitary figure would inspire fear in them, and rode up towards the hills of Jebel Gafar to observe the lunar landscape.
It was then that he noticed something strange at a distance of about a kilometre, where the hillside had eroded into a shape that looked rather like an amphitheatre. The ochre-coloured surface layers had crumbled, revealing a chalky layer underneath which, in the light of day, reflected an indistinct, glaring whiteness. But the low, oblique rays of the moon brought out a series of pinnacles sculpted by the wind and the rare winter rains. One of them, in particular, seemed to have too regular a shape to have been created by nature.
He made his way closer, sheltered by a rocky ridge that separated him from the object of his curiosity. When he was near enough he left his horse and approached on foot, moving in such a way as not to be seen and confident that the tan colour of his uniform would blend in well with the sand.
He climbed over the one last hillock that had been blocking his view and found himself in front of a cylindrical construction built of dry blocks of stone taken from the mountain behind it and thus of the same white colour, making it undistinguishable under the direct light of the sun. The top of the tower had partially collapsed, making its shape even less apparent, but at its centre was a figure that had been corroded over time by the elements but was still recognizable: a winged horse on its hind legs, supported by a brace that the ancient artist had crafted to look like a rock on which its front legs rested.
Selznick wanted to shout out in that empty immensity, to cry out in victory and triumph. He had finally found what he had been seeking for so many years. And he had made it there first, suffering more than anyone else, fighting longer, overcoming hunger and thirst and the proximity of the coarse and stupidly ferocious beings he’d had to surround himself with. He dropped down to the ground and took out his binoculars to examine the top of the tower, but what he saw left him astonished and furious. There were armed men on the bastions and for a moment he thought he could make out a woman as well.
He shook his head in dismay and mentally counted his men: not enough for a frontal assault. Just then, more men on horseback appeared at the base of the tower on one side, raising a white cloud of dust under the moon. There were at least thirty of them, well armed and in a compact formation. They were patrolling the surrounding territory.
Selznick returned to his camp and ordered his men to extinguish the fire they had built with a little wood they’d found on the bottom of a wadi and to seek shelter wherever they could. He found a point from which he could observe the tower and again he thought he saw a woman walking on the bastions and then disappearing.
SHE WENT DOWN THE STAIRS to a walkway that encircled the tower’s inner courtyard and provided access to the rooms all around it. She went into her room, a plain bare space with solid stone walls. One corner of the room was covered with carpets and blankets, while another had a number of cushions arranged around a copper plate holding bedouin bread and a clay water jug. Next to the door was a rack with rifles, sabres and pikes and a round shield of damascened steel. The room was lit only by the reflected moonlight on the white limestone walls.
Her attention was suddenly attracted by a clear but very soft noise, barely perceptible, coming from outside. She leaned out of the narrow window and started. A man had tossed a rope onto the bastions and was climbing up the shadowed part of the outer wall. She instinctively ran to the weapons rack and seized a rifle. She aimed at the man, who was close now to the parapet, but something stopped her finger from pulling the trigger, a presentiment. The intruder swung out of the shadowy area and turned to face her. It was Philip!
The woman dropped the gun and ran out of the door to the stairs and the upper walkway just in time to call the guard. ‘I heard a suspicious noise coming from over there,’ she said. ‘Go and check.’
The sentry rushed off in the opposite direction and she reached the spot on the bastions where the rope was hanging from a hook jammed into a crack be
tween two stone blocks, just as Philip grasped the parapet to hoist himself over the side. He was rooted to the spot at the shock of seeing her in front of him.
‘Oh, my God! Is that you?’
She pulled him away from the guard’s range of vision. ‘You’re mad!’ she said. ‘Why did you do it? You might have died . . . You may die still.’ Philip could hear a deep note of anguish in her words. ‘Follow me, quickly,’ she said, and led him down the stairs to the lower walkway and to her room. Panting, she closed the heavy door behind her.
Philip held her close in a feverish embrace, as though he feared she might once again vanish without warning. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘What is this place?’
The woman shook her head.
‘This is the place I was searching for, that my father is searching for, isn’t it? Tell me, you must tell me. You can’t deny me an answer. It was you who had me come all this way.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s not true. I didn’t want to see you again.’
But Philip felt her trembling in his arms. He pulled the winged-horse pendant out of his bag. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘This is yours and you put it in here that night in Aleppo. The name of this place is carved right here. You wanted me to come here.’
‘No, this is not what I wanted to happen,’ said the woman. ‘I thought I would be long gone from here by the time you arrived. But unfortunately, that’s not the way it went. I was forced to stop here, to wait . . . That’s the only reason you found me here.’