‘We have to open that file,’ said Sarah. ‘There’s something I don’t like about this.’
‘Come on. That has to be impossible. The password must be in hieroglyphics, or in Arabic.’
He tried to open the file. ‘See? It won’t open. It wants a password.’
But Sarah was in no mood to give up. ‘No, wait. It’s not as hard as it seems. Usually the password is something really obvious, like his phone number.’
Blake gave it to her, unconvinced.
‘Or his date of birth. Do you know what it is?’
‘No, I don’t. Leave it alone, Sarah. Come on. Husseini is a good guy, a friend, you know, and I don’t want—’
‘Or his wife’s name. Has he got a wife?’
‘He has a girlfriend. Sally, I think her name is.’
‘Sally, huh? Nope, doesn’t work. Try it in Arabic. You know Arabic. I’ve got a program.’
Blake surrendered and tried to cooperate. ‘Sally in Arabic. Come on, Sarah. Anyway, no. See, it doesn’t work.’
‘A son, a daughter . . .’
‘No, he doesn’t have children.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘OK, you win. It’s not nice to stick your nose in other people’s business, right? But basically, that’s what I do for a living—’
‘Hold on,’ Blake interrupted her. The photograph of a little boy on the table in Husseini’s apartment flashed through his mind. The dedication, in Arabic: In memory of Said. Dad.
‘He has a son. Or did.’
He typed ‘Said’ in Arabic. And the file opened.
‘Oh, Christ!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘What the hell is this?’
Blake looked closer and couldn’t see anything more than a cluster of dense ASCII characters.
‘Doesn’t look like anything to me,’ said Blake. ‘Why are you so alarmed?’
‘Because this program is very complex and difficult to use, and it’s also very rare. As far as I know, just a few intelligence services use it. What kind of people does your friend hang out with anyway?’
‘No, no, you’ve got to be wrong . . . He’s just a professor of Coptic studies. I’ve known him for years. He’s the quietest, most habit-bound person you can imagine. I don’t know anything about computer systems, but I’ll bet you anything it’s something harmless. A spell check for Aramaic or something.’
‘Unfortunately, I’d say not. Damn this tiny screen. If I could just print it out . . . Wait, let’s see if I can feed it through my decoder.’ She continued to press keys frenetically and the tips of her nails sounded strange, like the ticking of a clock. As the decoder succeeded in interpreting the cluster of computer symbols on the screen, Sarah’s expression became more and more apprehensive.
‘Can you figure it out?’ asked Blake again.
‘It’s an automatic system of sorts, divided into three sectors. The cluster system that you see here automatically controls the rotation of three objects, or people, on different objectives, like targets, I’d say.’
‘Can you identify them?’
‘I have to try to enlarge a single sector and then identify the topographic support. Let me give it a try. OK, baby, here we go . . . Good. Come on, keep it up . . . OK, yes, it’s just as I thought. Here’s our topographic support and here’s one of the objectives. All right, let’s take a look at the other one now . . . Perfect, OK, and now the third . . . Oh, Christ, what the hell—’
‘Do you mind letting me in on this?’ insisted Blake.
‘Listen,’ said Sarah. ‘If I’m not mistaken, the system controls the continuous rotation, once every twenty-four hours, of three objects that are identified with this word . . . What is it, Arabic?’
‘Yes,’ said Blake, putting on his glasses and peering at the screen. ‘It’s Arabic and it means “donkey”. Actually, the full expression is “the three donkeys of Samarkand”. Lord only knows what that might mean.’
‘Donkeys? You’re the expert. Anyway, these three “donkeys” are trained on a different objective every twenty-four hours, in rotation. The system includes six rotations, four of which have already been completed,’ she explained, pointing to a tangle of symbols in a corner of the screen. ‘At the sixth rotation, another program is activated. The final program is another automatic system, like a computer virus this time, that culminates in an irreversible consequence. That might be the destruction of the computer memory, or the loss of the files, or even something else.’
‘Like what?’ asked Blake.
‘What was the name of the file?’
Blake suddenly remembered.
‘Armageddon.’
‘The battle of the last day, right? Doesn’t that bring anything to mind?’
‘Oh, my God. That’s why our government, and our allies, haven’t acted in defence of Israel,’ said Blake in shock. ‘The country is being threatened by some kind of catastrophic time bomb, and this is it.’
‘You know, I think you may be on to something,’ said Sarah. ‘Say that those “donkeys” are tanks of nerve gas, or deadly bacteria, or tactical nuclear bombs. At the sixth order of rotation, they will be aimed at their final targets and the program will be ready to go. Triggered. And boom.
‘Will, we’ve got to warn the embassy. Do you think they’d believe us? Or just send over another couple of henchmen to get rid of us?’
‘Improbable,’ said Blake. ‘They don’t know where we are and would have no way of locating us. They’ll have to listen. Close that file and call the embassy. Immediately.’
‘All right,’ said Sarah. ‘I just hope they will listen to us. You know, I’m not completely sure about this. I might have analysed the program for a video game.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Blake. ‘But a false alarm is better than no alarm. It can’t cost them anything to check. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll explain to Husseini that it was my fault. Call them.’
Sarah closed the file, disconnected from the Internet and turned off the computer. Then she dialled the number for the embassy that she had already called.
‘It’s busy,’ she said.
‘That’s funny. It’s ten o’clock at night. Try it again.’
‘I’ll put it on automatic. It’ll keep trying until the line is free.’
Blake switched off the torch and they listened in silence as the little mobile phone tried the number again every two minutes, and every two minutes got a busy signal.
‘This is impossible,’ said Blake after a while. ‘It’s been half an hour. All the lines can’t be busy.’
‘Well, there is an emergency going on. Lots of people are probably calling for help.’
‘Even on the reserve line that you’ve been dialling? Yesterday they answered you, didn’t they? What if the line is completely out? Or maybe the embassy has been evacuated.’
Sarah grimaced in the dark.
‘Listen, call someone in the States. You’ve worked for the government, haven’t you? You must know someone important who can get the ball rolling. Christ, we can’t just sit here waiting until the damn telephone line is free.’
‘I’ve never had direct contact with anyone in the US administration. I always went through Maddox. But he’s dead, along with everyone else.’
‘Telephone anyone!’ said Blake. ‘A police station, the FBI. The Salvation Army! They’ll have to listen to us.’
‘It won’t be easy to explain what we’re talking about, and even if they listened to us, how could they possibly figure out how to block the program or identify the three rotating terminals?’
‘All they have to do is pull the plug on Husseini’s computer.’
‘I doubt it. There’s got to be a reserve circuit. It’s impossible that such a wide-scale operation is exclusively dependent on a personal computer sitting on the desk of a professor in Chicago. Unplugging the computer could be catastrophic. What’s more, first they have to find it, and there’s no saying it’s just sitting on his desk anyway.’
‘They’ll arrest Husseini and make him t
alk,’ insisted Blake, feeling a bit ashamed and still unwilling to implicate his friend in this affair.
‘Talk about what? Is he some kind of computer whiz?’
‘Well, as far as I know he’s good at deciphering ancient texts, but he probably doesn’t know a thing about programs.’
‘See? I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing were planted in his computer somehow without him knowing.’
‘You may be right,’ admitted Blake. ‘But there’s no way we can get through to him. He’s not answering the phone. He may not even be still living in that apartment.’
The phone started to beep repeatedly and Sarah shook her head. ‘What’s more, the battery is out and we’ve got no power. No way to recharge.’
‘Let’s use Selim’s phone,’ suggested Blake.
Just then they heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by Selim’s voice. ‘Professor Blake, Miss Forrestall, it’s me. Open the door.’
Blake switched the tiny torch back on, but its batteries were nearly flat as well, and the faint glow was of no help. He felt his way across the room, stumbling and swearing under his breath.
Selim entered, holding a torch. ‘We have to get out of here,’ he said. ‘They’re rounding up foreigners everywhere, especially Europeans and Americans. People are being searched on the street. The radio is continuously exhorting all citizens to report any suspicious persons or movements. And that’s not all.’
‘Not all?’ asked Blake.
‘Your mug shots are up everywhere. We have to leave Cairo while it’s still dark.’
They took their backpacks and Olsen’s briefcase and got into Khaled’s Peugeot, which was parked out on the street. He took off in the direction of the desert.
‘Where are you thinking of taking us?’ asked Blake.
‘I have friends in a Bedouin tribe that moves between Ismailia and the Gaza Strip. They’ll take care of you until things calm down.’
‘Until things calm down? Are you kidding, Selim? We have got to get out of Egypt and find an airport. We’re running out of time. We may have only forty-eight hours until—’
‘Until what, Professor Blake?’
‘Nothing, Selim . . . It’s hard to explain. But it’s an emergency.’
‘Professor Blake, you’re asking for a miracle. There’s no airport you could get to within that amount of time.’
‘Oh, yes, there is!’ said Sarah suddenly, snapping her fingers.
Blake turned towards her in surprise. ‘What are you talking about, Sarah?’
‘The Falcon! The Falcon is still in the hangar, inside the mountain five miles from Ras Udash. And I can fly it to the US.’
Blake shook his head. ‘It’s still impossible. How can we cross a war zone and get to Ras Udash, with this car, at night?’
Sarah had no answer and they sat for at least half an hour in gloomy silence. They were now surrounded by the steppe-like landscape that preceded the desert. Wide, flat boulders, their surfaces rounded by the wind, emerged here and there, surrounded by sparse bushes and dried grasses, looking like the bald heads of old giants under the wavering light of the moon.
Khaled was now driving very slowly over a dirt road, navigating by the light of the moon and trying not to raise any dust. Selim began talking with him in a low voice, using the El Qurna dialect so Blake couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying.
‘Maybe I know what we can do,’ said Selim more loudly.
‘Really?’
‘Khaled knows a Bedouin tribe that lives near the border. They’re used to sneaking across to rob the old vehicles that the Israelis leave on their shooting ranges so the American fighter planes can use them as targets. They take them to pieces to sell the spare parts, or sometimes they get them running again. They can take you to Ras Udash, at night, in the dark. It doesn’t matter to them as long as they’re well paid. And we’ve got the money.’
‘Well, then, let’s get moving, Selim,’ said Blake, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘In the name of Allah, let’s get moving!’
Khaled speeded up until they turned off onto a secondary road that led into the Sinai peninsula and drove fast for at least four hours. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the voice of war began to make itself heard. First a suffocated thundering that pounded the ground, resounding dully, then long, shrill whistles followed by deafening explosions, closer and closer, erupting into apocalyptic flames on the horizon. Flashes of blinding light whitened the sky and set fire to the earth.
A group of fighter bombers burst out of the blanket of clouds advancing from the south in a nosedive, sweeping the ground with furious volleys. Other planes shot up towards them, as if springing from the bowels of the earth, instantly engaging the others in fierce combat. The sky was scored by a multitude of tracers in every imaginable colour, rent by the angry screaming of the engines that urged the fighters past the sound barrier in a crazed tangle of impossible acrobatics.
One of the planes plunged to the ground: a globe of vermilion light and a roar that made the earth tremble. Another, hit by enemy fire, spiralled off, vomiting a long trail of black smoke, to crash in the distance like a brief flash of summer lightning. A third released a small white umbrella into the air which swung down through the liquid light of dawn like a jellyfish in a transparent sea before being blown apart by an explosion, dismembered into a cascade of incandescent pieces.
Selim pointed north. ‘Ras Udash is that way,’ he said. ‘In a few minutes we’ll be at El Mura, where we’ll meet our friends. Don’t worry about paying them. I’ve got some cash with me, from the money I brought to buy the papyrus . . . which ended up not costing anything,’ he added wryly.
‘You still haven’t told me how you found that money,’ said Blake.
‘I was asked not to tell you.’
‘Selim, it’s important. I have to know where that money came from. I swear I won’t mention it to anybody.’
‘Professor Husseini gave it to me. He was very concerned for you and when he heard that the Breasted papyrus had turned up again, he found the money.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred thousand dollars, in cash. I have 10,000 with me, that’s more than enough. The rest is in a safe place.’
They got out of the car and Selim walked into the camp without so much as glancing at a group of women who were going to draw water from the well, the jugs perched on small cushions on their heads. The men asked Sarah, still wrapped in her jellaba, to walk behind them, at a respectful distance.
Selim called out at the entrance of the tent and a man in a black burnoose came out and greeted him. Selim and Khaled bowed again, touching their fingertips to their chests, mouths and foreheads. The man looked back and, seeing Blake as well, gestured for the three of them to enter his tent. Sarah was told to sit outside on the ground next to a palm tree.
The fact that Blake could speak Arabic made things much easier. Selim provided no explanations; he knew that what would take most time was negotiating the price. Blake abstained from telling Selim to accept their first request, knowing full well that instead of solving the problem, such an attitude would only complicate matters.
In the silence that reigned throughout the camp, Blake heard the rhythmic pounding of a pestle and mortar: someone was preparing coffee for the guests who had come from so far away. Blake was reminded of that freezing night in Chicago and of the hospitality that had warmed his heart. How could Husseini possibly be such a monster, involved in a plot to destroy so many innocent people?
The coffee soon filled the tent with its aroma and Blake, accepting a steaming cup, thought that he would give a good number of the dollars in Selim’s pocket for a measure of bourbon to pour into the coffee. He imagined how humiliated Sarah must be feeling outside and was sorry he couldn’t do anything to change the situation.
The negotiations proceeded as the women brought them goat’s milk, yoghurt, ayran and dates. Blake asked them if they could take some to his wife as well, so w
eary from their long journey and hungry. The women nodded and, when they had finished serving the men, went out to Sarah.
Selim and the sheikh shook on 4,800 dollars, half of which was to be paid immediately and the other half at the end of the mission. They then began to discuss the itinerary on an up-to-date American 1:500,000-scale military map that their host pulled out of a chest.
They would approach by day on camel so as to avoid attracting the attention of the armed forces from either side. They would continue travelling in this way until they got to Abu Agheila, just a few miles from the border. There they would find a four-wheel drive with masked headlights which would take them by night to Ras Udash. Eighty miles of territory in all, at very high risk. The whole first stretch was practically up against the front line.
Selim counted out the money and they were soon taken, with Sarah, beyond the oasis where the camels were waiting for them. They said goodbye to Khaled, who had decided to wait for Selim to return to the camp so they could drive back together in his Peugeot.
‘Thank you, Khaled. I’ll be back one day,’ Blake promised, ‘and we’ll have a nice cold beer together at the Winter Palace in Luxor.’
‘Inshallah,’ said Khaled with a smile.
‘Inshallah,’ replied Blake. ‘If God so wills.’
He reached his companions who were already on their camels.
‘How will they know at Abu Agheila that we’re coming?’ he asked Selim, as he hoisted himself up into the saddle.
Selim gestured with his head and Blake turned. The sheikh pulled an ultra-modern mobile phone out of the band of fabric he wore at his waist and began talking in an animated voice with an unknown speaker.
They travelled all day, stopping for just half an hour at the well of Beer Hadat, a pool of yellowish water covered with swarms of dragonflies and water fleas. Their path was often crossed by columns of trucks, tanks and self-propelled howitzers going towards the front. Evidently the battle was still raging furiously.
They reached Abu Agheila shortly before dusk and the caravan leader brought them to a small caravanserai packed full of donkeys, camels and mules with their drivers, saturating the air with every imaginable sort of odour and shriek.