The Sword of Moses (16 page)

But the glass was heavily tinted, and she could see nothing except reflections of the iconic hotel.

She pressed the walkie-talkie to her ear and squeezed the transmit button.

“This is not over.” she yelled into the metal microphone over the deafening roar. “I will find you.”

There was a pause before the answer came. It was a slow mocking laugh.

“Who are you?” Ava shouted into the receiver.

When the reply came, it was in a cold precise voice. “
Legio mihi nomen est, quia multi sumus
.”
⁷

Despite the burning midday sun, Ava felt a chill, immediately recognizing the demonic biblical quotation, as well as the unmistakable tones of an east-German accent.

From everything she had learned, it could only be one person.

Malchus.

The handset went silent.

Boiling over with frustration, she flung the walkie-talkie to the floor, only just resisting the urge to kick it hard off the edge of the helipad.

Seething, she knew there was nothing she could do except watch as the anonymous chopper finished its vertical ascent and turned, heading out over the azure waters of the Gulf—with the Ark stowed safely on board.

——————— ◆ ———————

Burj al-Arab Hotel

Dubai

The United Arab Emirates

The Arabian Gulf

Ava hurried back to her suite.

She ignored the sculpture of tropical fruit wedges set with dramatic shards of white, dark, and milk chocolate on her dining table, and dialled the number Saxby had given her at their meeting in the Abbasid Palace.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

Adrenaline was still coursing through her system.

She took several deep breaths to slow herself down. “I’m afraid things didn’t go to plan,” she reported.

“They rarely do.” His voice was calm.

“It was stolen,” she continued, “by an assault team—almost certainly military or paramilitary. They killed Yevchenko, and lifted it off by helicopter.” She paused, struggling to keep her frustration in check. “It’s gone.”

She could hear him exhale. “I see.” There was disappointment in his voice. “Was it the genuine object?”

“I can’t say,” she admitted, barely able to suppress her anger. “It all happened before the preview.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Who knows about this?”

“Just me, I think,” she answered. “I got closer to them than I really wanted to.”

“You’re okay though?” There was immediate concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” she replied truthfully. “But there’s one fewer of them on the flight home.”

“Dear God.” Saxby was clearly horrified. “I can only apologize if I put you in danger.”

“I can look after myself,” she reassured him.

He breathed out audibly. “You realize this changes things?”

“Does it?” She was not quite sure what he meant.

“With regret,” he replied, “I must cancel our arrangement. If I’d known I was placing you in danger, I’d never have got you involved. Please—accept my sincerest apologies. We’ll conclude the matter with a donation to your museum that’ll hopefully make this unpleasant incident worthwhile for you. And let’s leave it at that.”

“No, wait a minute,” Ava interrupted. “This is no time to pull out.”

Saxby’s answer had not been at all what she wanted to hear.

She could hear Saxby sigh with resignation. “Dr Curzon, from what you’ve told me, this is no longer the relatively simple exercise I’d hoped it would be. I cannot have any harm to you on my conscience, so we’ll end it here.”

“Look,” she was thinking quickly. “You could’ve engaged anyone for this. But you chose me. And you made the right decision. I’m more than qualified to see this through and recover the artefact for you.”

“It’s out of the question,” he replied firmly. “The man I represent would be mortified if you were placed in any danger on his account.”

Ava could feel the discussion slipping away from her. “There’s another way to look at this,” she countered, needing to turn the conversation around quickly. “The Ark now in transit somewhere over the Arabian Gulf may be genuine. And the men who took it are exactly the kind of people who should never have it. So whether it’s real or fake, whatever one believes about its historical importance, someone has to get it back from them—for everyone’s sake. And right now, I don’t see anyone better placed than us.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“I do.” She was taking a gamble—but right now Saxby was her best option if she wanted to stay in the game.

“Would you truly be willing to see this through?” His tone was sombre.

“You’d be making the right decision,” she replied, deadly serious. She was not at all sure who Saxby was, or what lay behind the Foundation he represented. She could follow the Ark on her own if she had to. But she had a strong feeling she would stand a better chance with the Foundation backing her. Along the way, she would make sure she found out who they really were. She could always cut her losses later if she did not like what she discovered.

“Very well,” Saxby paused. “Leave it with me. Meanwhile, I suggest you head to London and wait there. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, the phone went dead.

Ava breathed out heavily. She was not good at waiting, but she had done as much as she could for now. She had to trust Saxby—and hope he came back with the answer she wanted.

Walking up to the bedroom, she looked out of the panoramic window, and for the first time took in the extraordinary sight of the brand new city—miraculously transformed in only a few decades from a washed-up pearl-diving hamlet in a forgotten corner of the Gulf, to the hi-tech business capital of the Middle East.

She could see the world’s tallest building spiking up into the blue, dominating the ultra-modern skyline—a one-and-a-half-billion-dollar shimmering needle of triumphant engineering. If the original tower of Babel was the ziggurat temple in Babylon to Marduk, patron-god of the city, then the tower she was looking at was in the same tradition—a temple to Dubai’s gods of ambition and conquest.

As much as she had always wanted to explore the desert metropolis, her number one priority now was to get out of the hotel before an unfortunate chambermaid discovered the carnage in Yevchenko’s room.

Quickly throwing her belongings into her bag, she picked a wedge of dragon-fruit off the arrangement on the table. Taking a bite of the nutty seed-studded flesh, she closed the door of the suite behind her, and headed for the rank of air-conditioned taxis lined up outside the hotel.

——————— ◆ ———————

Undisclosed location

The old house lay isolated and screened off by dense trees.

It nestled on the side of the windswept hill, far from the other rural buildings scattered around the edge of the great freshwater lake.

The locals shunned the place.

For generations, they had taken the longer road around the hill to avoid passing close by it. Their rural Christianity was strong, and had sustained them for over a thousand years. They knew when something unhallowed was in their midst.

They rarely spoke of the house, save to whisper to their children that it was cursed—a place beyond God’s law where unholy forces still walked.

All of them knew the rumours that were passed down from parent to child.

The old priest told it best.

A wealthy Englishman had come before the first war. He had shut himself away in its secluded rooms for month after month, poring over magical texts. He had no visitors, and lived as a recluse.

It was said he built a diabolical oratory lined with mirrors, in which he invoked infernal powers at dawn and dusk. After many months of vigils, abstinence, and study, it is said he succeeded in conjuring up the twelve kings and dukes of Hell.

Occasional visitors came to the village having heard of the house and its history. But the locals did not encourage their kind of tourism, and most were sent on their way, never having found the house.

A succession of non-locals had owned the house since the Englishman left. Mainly the owners kept to themselves, and the villagers could only speculate what went on there.

Tonight, there were lights on inside the house.

——————— ◆ ———————

Undisclosed location

Malchus waited until it was almost totally dark before leaving the secluded house.

In the valley below, the great lake was still—a vast sheet of smoky black glass.

Its shores were dotted with trees, and a sizeable wood began just behind the house—dense with birch, fir, larch, and pine.

Despite the inky darkness, he headed straight for it.

He had been looking forward to this. But he had forced himself to wait until tonight. Until the time was right. He needed the moon to be waning—in its most destructive phase.

He liked working unobserved in the isolated woods, just as the Englishman had done nearly a hundred years earlier. It gave him a visceral sense of continuity.

Even back in Dresden, when he had first come across the life and work of the English adept, he knew that their destinies were somehow indissolubly connected.

They were both travellers on the same ancient path.

Ever since, he had sensed the magus’s long-dead hand in things—as if he was somehow guiding him from afar.

He knew coincidences did not exist. So he did not believe it was an accident when the Englishman’s isolated house came onto the market at a time when he had the means to acquire it.

He was certain it was part of the Plan

To his joy, he found the house not only brought him closer to his guide: it also turned out to be perfect for his work—large, spacious, and well away from prying eyes. He thought of it as his spiritual monastery, in the true meaning of the word—a place where he could be
monos
, alone.

He headed deeper into the woods. Although they were on his private land, there was no need for high fences or barriers to stop trespassers. He knew how the locals felt about the old house.

He was never disturbed.

As he strode along the dark path, the weak moonlight only filtered through occasionally, when a sufficient break in the canopy let a pale glow penetrate the foliage. But he did not need any light. He knew his way by heart. He had been there many times.

He was looking forward to his work tonight. He had prepared everything that afternoon. All he needed now was inside the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

As he penetrated further into the heart of the forest, he was aware of the deep silence. There were no animal sounds—just his firm footfalls on the path and the occasional dry snapping twig under his boots. He blended into the darkness and silence—a natural part of the wood’s nocturnal malevolence.

Approaching the clearing, he could just make out the freshly cut logs he had carefully built into a pyramid, and the makeshift iron frame he had rigged over them, on which he had hung a large cooking pot. He could also see the grey box standing off to the side, almost black in the moonlight.

Everything was as he had left it.

Approaching the centre of the clearing, he put the leather bag down on the mossy ground, and bent low under the pot. Striking a match, he lit the layer of kindling beneath the log pyre.

Fanned by the night breeze, the fire took quickly. In no time, yellow tongues of flame were excitedly licking the bottom of the blackened pot.

He unbuckled the leather bag, and took out a bundle of soft cloth. Unwrapping it, he revealed the two large brass discs he had collected from the
Okkultismus
shop in Quedlinburg.

As he lay them in the cloth spread on the ground, the orangey-gold metal glinted in the flickering light from the fire. He had polished them meticulously, even swabbing them with neat alcohol. They had to be surgically clean—totally free of the cat’s blood and gore he had drenched them in when blessing and dedicating them back in Quedlinburg.

Now the discs were properly prepared, he could finally use them for their intended purpose.

Shivering with anticipation, he ran his fingers over the large countersunk depression in each one, feeling the ridges and whorls.

Ready, he pressed the discs together, hollowed out sides facing inwards, and aligned the teeth and slots so they locked, fusing together to form a shallow sealed cylinder.

He placed it on its edge, and rotated it like a wheel, stopping when he saw the aperture in the join. It was the thickness of a child’s finger, and opened into a small tunnel bored through to the hollow centre of the discs.

Returning to his bag, he took out a number of large grey blocks.

He knew he had surprised the owner of the candle factory when he arrived unannounced and demanded several kilos of pure grey wax. But the factory owner seemed happy for the cash. He had paid a good price, and from the man’s pleased expression, he figured he could do with more customers like him. It must have been easier money than making and selling candles.

Malchus dropped the wax blocks into the cooking pot. They were unperfumed—he had insisted on that. As they began to melt, the lumpy viscous soup gave off its natural greasy odour.

Taking two small glass jars from his bag, he poured the thick dark liquid in each into the wax. As he did so, he intoned in a low voice. “
Benedícas haec dona, haec munera, haec sancta sacrificia illibata.
”
⁸

For a moment the air filled with a strong sharp metallic smell, then it was gone.

Malchus stared at the pot until the blocks were melted and the hot wax was liquid. Then he knelt down by the discs and placed a small black ceramic funnel into the aperture.

Slipping on a heat-resistant glove, he began scooping the molten wax out of the steaming pot with a ceremonial silver cup, before pouring the hot liquid into the funnel.

When the mould was full and the wax was running freely over the top of the funnel, he removed it, and wiped the waxy residue from around the aperture. Picking it up, he carried it over to the grey box, which was emitting a faint hum. As he lifted the lid, an icy blast of air escaped.

Placing the discs carefully inside the camping freezer, he checked the time. He figured an hour should do it—enough to harden the wax.

After stoking the fire under the pot, he bent down and opened his bag to retrieve another bundle of cloth—smaller this time.

Inside was a second set of brass discs, about half the size of the ones now in the freezer. They had also been made by the shop in Quedlinburg, but this time from the impression and photos he had taken of Dr Dee’s undamaged smaller seal at the British Museum.

He had checked the accuracy of the discs the moment they had arrived from Quedlinburg.

Once again, the artisan had done a flawless job.

As with the larger mould, he had blessed and dedicated it with the blood and entrails of a sacrificial life. This time it had been a small dog he had caught sniffing around in the woods. Even if somebody missed it, he doubted they would come looking anywhere near his house.

People were such hypocrites,
he mused, remembering the dog’s last frantic convulsions as he sliced open its small throat.

He especially despised the sanctimonious followers of the ancient biblical texts, who cherry-picked from their own sacred writings—taking what suited them, and ignoring what they did not like.

Didn’t their God specifically and repeatedly demand animal sacrifices in the Bible? Didn’t he give explicit instructions on how to build the altars and slaughter the animals, which parts to eat and which to burn, and how to splash the animal’s blood over the altars? Didn’t he repeatedly say how pleasing he found the aroma of a living sacrifice’s charring flesh?

Malchus’s lip curled with derision. And how they fulminated at human sacrifices.

Hypocrites again!

It was all in their sacred book—that treasure-house of ancient wisdom. How Jephthah sacrificed his young daughter to Yahweh as a burnt offering, and how Josiah immolated the pagan priests on their own altars as a burnt offering to renew the covenant. And there was more—lots more, in that holy book of theirs that even their priests rarely read with honesty.

But he had.

And he had understood it all.

People were weak. They had turned from the path that had been clearly shown to them.

Malchus felt an overwhelming contempt for them—all those who failed to see, or chose to ignore, what was clear to anyone who read the texts.

When the hour was up, he opened the lid of the freezer, and took out the cold brass discs. Prizing them carefully apart with the blade of a wide knife, he lifted the top disc off to reveal a large wax seal nestling inside the mould.

He gazed down at the perfect recreation of Dr Dee’s Elizabethan
Sigillum Dei—
his heart beating faster as he sensed the progress he was making in the Work.

He pulled the seal free and turned it over again and again in his hands, soaking up every intricate detail of the glyphs and symbols enciphered in the oldest language of all—the sacred script known only to initiates.

His eyes glowed with pleasure as he saw in the moonlight that the grey wax was shot through with pink streaks, stained by the blood he had added—taken from the dying cat and dog as their lives slowly bled out for him. He smiled to himself. That had not been part of Dr Dee’s instructions, but then he had a few other improvements on Dr Dee’s work in mind, too.

He looked carefully at the intricate designs on the waxy surface, all rendered faithfully on the new seal—the first
Sigillum Dei
to be cast in four hundred years.

It was sublime
.

He would trim off the sprue tomorrow, and it would be indistinguishable from Dr Dee’s all-powerful original.

Turning back to the smaller mould, he aligned the two halves and pressed them together. He needed to make four identical seals with it.

It would be a long night.