The Last Judgment (14 page)

The American looked inside. Everything was there except the pile of religious tracts he had been passing out across from the Citadel.

“Where are my pamphlets?”

“Everything's there—do you understand? Everything is there,” the clerk said emphatically.

Gilead looked at the clerk, then glanced over at the jailer, who was smiling and nodding.

He slowly signed his name. The clerk shoved his bag toward him, and after Gilead picked it up, he was escorted by the jailer down several hallways, past the front desk, and out onto the street.

“We would very much like you to leave Cairo…and please do not return. Have a nice day, Mr. Amahn!”

With that, the guard gave a somewhat silly little wave, smiling broadly with his dingy teeth. He lifted his brimmed cap slightly in a semi-salute, then turned and vanished into the police station.

Gilead began to walk down the al-Sadd al-Barrani toward the Nile River, in the direction of the shops and markets. It would be a long walk. He would have preferred to take the Metro, but he had paid his last Egyptian pound in order to call Will Chambers.

As he walked, Gilead looked across to the other side of the avenue. There was an old man dressed in a long, drab robe with a dirty turban. He had a switch in his hand and was occasionally touching the hindquarters of a donkey that was pulling a cart. Over its top was a burlap bag stretched over the load and tied down with rope. The old man stared at Gilead, and after a few seconds, he nodded and smiled in his direction.

After walking nearly half an hour, Gilead glanced around and noticed that a blond European-looking man was walking behind him about a hundred feet back. Gilead turned around again and looked. There was something familiar about him. Gilead thought that perhaps he had seen the man's face in the crowd at Salah ad-Din Square, mingling with the passersby before the man in the fez began arguing with him.

Gilead glanced back again. Now the blond man was picking up speed, his walk turning into a jog. As he approached, he gave a short wave and flashed a smile.

“Hello. Do I know you?” Gilead asked, extending his hand and shaking the hand of his follower.

“No. I do not believe so,” the man said in a thick French accent. “But I know you.”

“Oh?”

“Are you heading into downtown?”

“Well, I am, right now, without funds. And so—”

“Then I am here to help.”

“You said you knew me,” Gilead replied. “Have we met before?”

“I saw you at the Square. Preaching. Very brave, but—as some might say—perhaps even foolish. What brought you to Cairo to preach?”

“I felt that it was the leading of the Lord…”

Now the Frenchman was nodding and eyeing Gilead intently.

“I'm Gilead Amahn,” Gilead said, reaching out his hand again to shake hands with the Frenchman.

“Are you from America?”

“Yes, though originally from Egypt here. Native-born. But I went to America with my father as a boy.”

The two continued to chat as they walked along the side of the avenue.

“And you were the one involved in a court case in Virginia? You were saying some controversial remarks at a conference at the Islamic Center there?”

“Yes. That's right. How do you know so much about me?” Gilead asked with surprise.

“Oh…I spend much time on the Internet—there were some newspaper articles about your case on the Web.”

“What brings you here to Cairo?”

“Actually, like you, I was born in one country—France—but transplanted to another. Actually, I have a little apartment in Jerusalem.”

“So, what are you doing in Egypt? Sightseeing?”

“Not exactly,” the Frenchman said. “I have a deep interest in the things of God. And also in the history of the religions of the world. There is much religious history here in Cairo. The ancient religions.”

“Then you and I may have some things in common,” Gilead said with a smile. “I also have an interest in the things of
God…which, I suppose, you already know, having seen what happened in the Square.”

Both of the men laughed a little.

“So, do you come to Cairo to study?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the man said. “For instance, on one of my trips here I studied the ancient Egyptian calendar system. I wanted to get some information about that. And also about one of the pharaohs. Amenhotep IV—he was also called Akhenaton. He ruled around 1400 BC.”

“What is your interest in him?”

“Just this.” Gilead's companion studied him closely. “Akhenaton was the only pharaoh in a long line of polytheistic pharaohs who broke with that religious tradition. He was the pharaoh who declared that Egypt should worship the one true God. In his words, the God who was not in the sun, but the God who actually had made the sun.”

“You know, though I was raised here in Egypt, it's been a long time since I studied Egyptian history. But now I recall Akhenaton. In fact, wasn't he the one whose life may have intersected with the life of Moses? He may have even been the pharaoh the Old Testament refers to in the book of Exodus. If so, that might explain the source of his monotheism. He may have broken with the polytheism of the other pharaohs because he was able to see firsthand the display of the power of the God of Moses…”

“Yes. Very interesting. You are a fascinating man, Gilead. I have come to the East in search of truth. I think, perhaps, that there is much—very much I can learn from you.”

Gilead smiled.

“So, you said you have no money. May I impose upon you with a suggestion?” the Frenchman asked. “I do have some money. I was going to hire a driver to take me back to—but that's a little presumptuous of me. Where were you heading next?”

Walking along, Gilead paused a minute before he answered.

“Actually…I was bound for Jerusalem. That is my destination.”

The other man stopped in his tracks. Gilead halted in surprise and looked closely at his new acquaintance.

He was smiling and staring through Gilead, as it were.

“Then it is settled.” The Frenchman extended both hands to take Gilead's, and squeezed them. “I will hire a driver. We will go to Jerusalem. Are your passport and visa in order?”

Gilead nodded.

“Wonderful!” his companion said as they resumed their walk. “The driver will take us to the border station outside Elat. Once we get through the Egyptian border guards, we'll pick up a taxi in Elat by one of the hotels. There are many of them. We'll take the Dead Sea route and head to Jerusalem that way.”

The Frenchman reached into his backpack and retrieved a candy bar.

“You hungry?”

“Famished. I haven't really eaten in the last two days.”

The man handed it to Gilead.

“When we get closer to the downtown, before hiring our driver, I'll make sure you get a good meal. You have to keep up your strength. I have a feeling that, looking back, we'll realize how this day was the beginning of something quite significant—who knows, perhaps even prophetic!”

Gilead nodded, busy devouring the candy bar. But the Frenchman was studying his every move as they walked.

Up ahead, the old man in the robe was gently touching the hindquarters of the donkey with his whip. The donkey was tired and refusing to pick up the pace. So the old man reached into his robe and pulled out a carrot, tied it onto the whip, and then put the end of the whip in front of the face of the donkey, the carrot dangling just inches from its mouth. The donkey brought up its head instinctively, and then picked up its pace.

21

I
N THE PRIVATE PALACE OF
W
ARREN
M
ULLBURN
on the island republic of Maretas, Orville Putrie was being escorted by two armed guards up the spiral marble staircase.

Putrie was a man in his late thirties, but his face had a worn look that made him look much older. His body was frail and slightly hunched over. His head had a rectangular look to it, with a tuft of unkempt hair. He had thick glasses of an almost telescopic optical quality and a small mouth that seemed always to be set in a twisted grimace.

When Putrie and the guards reached the main portico of the second floor, they were greeted by two other guards, who then led the visitor into the inner offices where Warren Mullburn's personal assistant sat behind a large, ornate, hand-carved desk.

Putrie announced himself and the woman nodded, then rang Mullburn and asked if he wished to see Mr. Putrie.

The meeting between Mullburn and Putrie was, admittedly, an extraordinary one. Mullburn met with few subordinates—and almost never met with those who were destined for what he euphemistically described as “direct action.”

Even the deferential Mr. Himlet had soberly advised against Mullburn meeting personally with his newest chief of computer-intelligence research.

Mullburn had listened patiently to Himlet's advice, but then had abruptly rejected it.

He had not felt the need, of course, to explain himself.

Putrie was led by the armed security detail into Mullburn's spacious office, the one used for private receptions and informal meetings.

He took a few steps toward the billionaire after the guards had retreated behind closed doors and reached out his hand to shake Mullburn's.

“It's an honor…great honor…to meet you…” Putrie stuttered.

Mullburn glanced down at Putrie's extended hand but did not shake it. Instead, he simply smiled politely and invited his guest to join him on the outside veranda, which overlooked the crystal blue of the Caribbean.

“I was very interested in your work on breaking into quantum encryption,” Mullburn began.

Putrie nodded enthusiastically.

“I'm so glad you are interested, Mr. Mullburn. I know you have an engineering background yourself…”

“Yes. Like you, I'm an MIT man. Though I was there many years before you were.”

Putrie glanced down sheepishly. “I did attend MIT…but…I must tell you that I did not finish my work there. I didn't exactly graduate—”

“A mere formality,” Mullburn said with a broad smile. “Yes, I'm familiar with some of the problems you had with a particular professor there. And I do know they considered your comments to him to be of a threatening nature. It's apparent your professor had no sense of humor.”

Putrie laughed nervously. Mullburn smiled.

“If you'd be interested,” Putrie blurted out, “in going through the schematics I've worked out on exactly how we can break through the quantum encryption system, I'd be glad to show you. My drawings—I don't have them with me. But, well…let me just say, what I did was, I worked on the principle of what I like to call the reflective cipher system—a kind of mirror reflection of the code-carrying photons. Actually, it's not too far from the old computer cookie idea…I just created a reverse-image algorithm—”

“Orville, there's really no need to go into the details. I've reviewed all of this. So have my computer people. And my management team. And do you know what?”

Putrie was staring at Mullburn, slightly slack-jawed. He shook his head no and waited for the answer.

“The fact is, Orville, we really think you can do this. And we'd like to have you prove your theory. We need you to gain access into a very complicated quantum-encryption process used by another government. Now, as you know, the Republic of Maretas, your employer, has legitimate security concerns. Your work will help ensure the safety of this island nation—and perhaps even other nations of the world. Do you realize how important you are, Orville?”

“I had no idea,” Putrie stammered.

“Of course you didn't.”

Then Mullburn stood abruptly and told Orville Putrie that their meeting was over.

As the billionaire walked his visitor to the door, he added, “You will get your further instructions from my Chief of International Security.”

Putrie nodded dutifully, then extended his right hand again. But again, Mullburn simply glanced down at it, but did not shake it.

As Putrie was turning to leave, Mullburn scanned his clothing: scuffed dress shoes with a black lace on the left and a brown one on the right, wrinkled khaki pants, and a blue dress shirt that was missing a button.

“Oh, and Putrie…”

“Yes, sir?”

“On your way out, talk to my assistant at the desk. Give her your pants, shoe, and shirt sizes. We're going to dress you appropriately.”

The computer genius gave a nervous laugh and a twisted smile, and then hunched his way through the doors, which he closed behind him.

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes,” Mullburn snapped.

“I'm sorry to bother you. President La Rouge wondered if he could schedule a meeting with you. It is about picking a new ambassador to the UN.”