Contract With God (39 page)

For what seemed like the thousandth time since he had confirmed the readings on his instruments, the official picked up the phone and called another of the areas due to be affected by the forecast.

‘Port of Aqaba.’

‘
Salaam aleikum
, this is Jawar Ibn Dawud, from the Al-Qahira Meteorological Institute.’

‘
Aleikum salaam
, Jawar, this is Najjar.’ Even though the two men had never met they had spoken on the phone a dozen times. ‘Can you call me back in a few minutes? I’m really busy this morning.’

‘Listen to me, this is important. Early this morning we spotted a huge air mass. It’s extremely hot and it’s headed your way.’

‘A simoon? Coming this way? Shit, I’ll have to call my wife and tell her to bring in the laundry.’

‘You’d better stop joking. This is one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. It’s off the charts. Extremely dangerous.’

The meteorologist in Cairo could almost hear the harbourmaster swallowing hard on the other end of the line. Like all Jordanians, he had learned to respect and fear the simoon, a sandstorm that moved in a circular motion like a tornado, with speeds of up to 100 miles per hour and temperatures of 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone unlucky enough to witness a simoon in full force out in the open died instantly of cardiac arrest due to the intense heat, and the body was robbed of all moisture, leaving an empty, dried-out carcass where only minutes before there had been a human being. Luckily, modern weather forecasts gave civilians sufficient time to take precautions.

‘I understand. Do you have a vector?’ said the harbourmaster, now clearly worried.

‘It left the Sinai desert a few hours ago. I think it’s just going to graze Aqaba, but it will feed on the currents there and explode over your central desert. You’ll have to call everyone so they can relay the message.’

‘I know how the network works, Jawar. Thank you.’

‘Just make sure that nobody sails before tonight, OK? If not, you’ll be collecting mummies in the morning.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

David Pappas pushed the head of the drill through the opening for the last time. They had just finished drilling a slit in the wall some six feet wide and three and a half inches high, and thanks to the Everlasting the ceiling of the chamber on the other side of the wall had not collapsed, although there had been a slight tremor caused by the vibrations. They could now remove the rocks by hand without having to break them apart. Lifting them and setting them aside was another matter, since there were quite a few.

‘It’s going to take another two hours, Mr Kayn.’

The billionaire had come down into the cave half an hour earlier. He had stood in the corner with both hands behind his back, as he often did, simply watching and seemingly relaxed. Raymond Kayn had been afraid of the descent into the hole, but only in a rational way. He had spent the entire night preparing himself mentally, and had not felt the usual fear gripping his chest. His pulse had raced, but no more than usual for a sixty-eight-year-old man who had been strapped into a harness and lowered into a cavern for the first time.

Russell approached him and whispered that he had to go and fetch something from his tent. Kayn nodded, distracted by his own thoughts, but proud to have freed himself from his dependence on Jacob. He loved him like a son, and was grateful for his sacrifice, but he could hardly recall a minute when Jacob was not on the other side of the room, ready to offer a helping hand or a piece of advice. How patient the young man had been with him.

 

MOSES 1
: Behemoth, Moses 1 here. Do you read me?

 

BEHEMOTH
: Behemoth. Good morning, Mr Russell.

 

MOSES 1
: Hello, Thomas. How are you?

 

BEHEMOTH
: You know, sir. A lot of heat, but I think those of us born in Copenhagen can never get enough of it. How can I help?

 

MOSES 1
: Thomas, Mr Kayn needs the BA-609 in a half-hour. We have to make an emergency pick-up. Tell the pilot to carry the maximum payload of fuel.

 

BEHEMOTH
: Sir, I’m afraid that is going to be impossible. We’ve just received a communication from the Aqaba harbourmaster informing us that a giant sandstorm is moving across the area between the port and your location. They’ve suspended all air traffic until 1800 hours.

 

MOSES 1
: Thomas, I’d like you to clarify something for me. Does the side of your ship bear the insignia of the port of Aqaba or of Kayn Industries?

 

BEHEMOTH
: Kayn Industries, sir.

 

MOSES 1
: I thought so. Another thing. Did you happen to hear me when I told you the name of the person who requires the BA-609?

 

BEHEMOTH
: Hmm, yes, sir. Mr Kayn, sir.

 

MOSES 1
: Very well, Thomas. Then please be so kind as to follow the orders I have given you, or you and the entire crew of that tub will be out of a job within the month. Have I made myself clear?

 

BEHEMOTH
: Perfectly clear, sir. The aircraft will be heading your way immediately.

 

MOSES 1
: Always a pleasure, Thomas. Over and out.

He began by praising the name of Allah the Wise, the Holy, the Compassionate, the one who would let him triumph over his enemies. He did so kneeling on the floor, dressed in a white robe that covered his entire body. In front of him was a basin of water.

To make sure that the water reached the skin below the metal, he removed the ring inscribed with the date when he had finished his studies. It had been a gift from the brotherhood. He then washed both of his hands up to the wrists, concentrating on the areas between his fingers.

He cupped his right hand, the one which under no circumstances had ever been used to touch his private parts, and scooped up some water, then vigorously rinsed out his mouth three times.

Once again he collected water in his hand, brought it to his nose and inhaled forcefully in order to cleanse his nostrils. He repeated the ritual three times. With his left hand he cleaned out the remaining water, sand and mucus.

Using his left hand again, he moistened his fingertips and cleaned the tip of his nose.

He lifted his right hand and held it in front of his face, then lowered it in order to dip it into the basin and cleaned his face from his right ear to his left ear three times.

Then from his forehead to his throat three times.

He removed his watch and vigorously washed both forearms, first the right and then the left, from wrist to elbow.

Wetting the palms of his hands, he rubbed his head from the forehead to the back of his neck.

He placed his wet index fingers inside his ears, washing behind the ears and then the lobes with his thumbs.

Finally, he washed both feet up to the ankles, beginning with his right foot and making sure to wash between the toes.

‘
Ash hadu an la ilaha illa Allah wahdahu la shariika lahu wa anna Muhammadan ’abduhu wa rasuluh
,’ he recited fervently, stressing the central tenet of his faith that there is no God but Allah, who has no equals, and that Mohammed is his servant and Messenger.

 

That concluded the ritual of ablution, which would mark the beginning of his life as a declared warrior of the Jihad. Now he was ready to kill and die for the greater glory of Allah.

He grasped the pistol, allowing himself a brief smile. He could hear the plane’s engines. It was time to give the signal.

With a solemn gesture, Russell left the tent.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

The pilot of the BA-609 was Howell Duke. In twenty-three years of flying he had logged 18,000 hours in various types of aircraft under all possible weather conditions. He had survived a blizzard in Alaska and an electrical storm in Madagascar. But he had never felt true fear, that cold sensation that made your nuts shrivel up and your throat go dry.

Until today.

He was flying in a cloudless sky with optimum visibility, squeezing every last drop of horsepower from his engines. The plane wasn’t the fastest or the best he had piloted, but it certainly was the most amusing. It could reach a velocity of 315 miles per hour and then hover majestically in place like a cloud. Everything was going perfectly.

He lowered his eyes to check on the altitude, the fuel gauge, and the distance to his destination. When he looked up again his mouth fell open. There was something on the skyline that had not been there before.

At first it looked like a wall of sand one hundred feet high and a couple of miles wide. Given the few landmarks in the desert, Duke thought at first that what he was seeing was still. Slowly, he realised that it was moving, and it was doing so quickly.

He would need at least three minutes to land the plane, and the wall was less than twenty-five miles away. He made a quick calculation. It would take the simoon another twenty minutes to reach the canyon. He pressed the helicopter conversion mode and felt the motors slow down immediately.

Three and a half minutes later, the landing gear of the BA-609 was settling on the flat ground between the camp and the excavation. Duke cut the engine and for the first time in his life he didn’t bother to go through his final safety check but got out of the plane as if his pants were on fire. He glanced around but couldn’t see anyone.

He ran towards the tents, although he wasn’t so sure that being inside a tent was the safest place to be. Suddenly a figure dressed in white was walking towards him. Before long he recognised who it was.

‘Hey, Mr Russell. I see you’ve gone native,’ Duke said, feeling nervous. ‘I hadn’t seen you—’

Russell was twenty feet away. At that moment the pilot noticed that Russell had a pistol in his hand and stopped in his tracks.

‘Mr Russell, what’s going on?’

The executive said nothing. He simply aimed at the pilot’s chest and fired three quick shots. He stood over the fallen body and fired three more times into the pilot’s head.

In a nearby cave, O heard the shots and alerted the group.

‘Brothers, that’s the signal. Let’s go.’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

 

 

‘Are you drunk, Nest Three?’

‘Colonel, I repeat that Mr Russell just blew off the pilot’s head and then ran towards the excavation. What are your orders?’

‘Fuck. Does anyone have a visual on Russell?’

‘Sir, this is Nest Two. He’s climbing the platform. He’s dressed kind of strange. Should I fire a warning shot?’

‘Negative, Nest Two. Don’t do anything until we know more. Nest One, do you read me?’

‘. . .’

‘Nest One, do you read me?’

‘Nest One. Torres, pick up the fucking radio.’

‘. . .’

‘Nest Two, do you have a visual of Nest One?’

‘Affirmative, sir. I have a visual, but Torres isn’t there, sir.’

‘Shit! You two, don’t take your eyes off the entrance to the excavation. I’m on my way.’

The first sting had been on his calf, twenty minutes ago.

Fowler had felt a sharp pain, but luckily it didn’t last long, fading into a dull ache, more like a hard slap than the initial bolt of lightning.

The priest had planned to suppress any screams by gritting his teeth, but forced himself not to do so yet. He’d try that with the next sting.

The ants had gone no higher than his knees, and Fowler didn’t have the slightest idea if they knew what he was. He tried his best to seem like something that wasn’t edible or dangerous, and for both reasons there was one thing he could not do: move.

The next sting hurt a great deal more, maybe because he knew what would come next: the swelling in the area, the inevitability of it all, the feeling of helplessness.

After the sixth sting he lost count. Perhaps he had been stung twelve times, perhaps twenty. Not many more, but he couldn’t take it much longer. He had used up all his resources - gritting his teeth, biting his lips, flaring his nostrils wide enough for a truck to enter? At some point, feeling desperate, he had even risked twisting his wrists in the handcuffs.

The worst thing was not knowing when the next sting would come. Up to that point he had been lucky, since most of the ants had gone half a dozen feet to his left and only a couple of hundred covered the ground beneath him. But he knew that at the slightest movement they would attack.