‘That may not be possible,’ Morini objected. ‘I have duties that I need—’
‘You will adhere to the schedule. Your duties are of secondary importance to resolving this situation. You will also need to advise your masters that this may end up being a costly operation, and I do not anticipate any disputes over my expenses. One last question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Which languages do you speak?’
For a moment or two, Morini didn’t reply, because he couldn’t see the relevance of the question.
‘English,’ he said finally, ‘and Italian, obviously. I’m reasonably fluent in French as well. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you will be relaying my instructions to the contractors who will be carrying out the work.’
‘That was not my understanding,’ Morini replied, in surprise. ‘I believed that your organization would take over and resolve this problem. You must have people who can speak as many languages as I can.’
‘I do, but they will not be employed for this job. Either you translate my instructions as I have ordered or I’ll take no further part in this situation and you can solve the problem yourself, using whatever resources you have. I will not allow the Vatican to deny their involvement if this matter ever makes the news. We won’t be your scapegoat any more.’
‘But I have no resources,’ Morini protested. ‘You know that.’
‘Then it should not be a difficult decision for you.’
‘I really don’t like this.’
‘I’m not asking you to like it. I’m just telling you to do it. I expect to receive your detailed text message within the next fifteen minutes.’
The line went dead, and Morini stepped out of the telephone booth with a feeling of relief, and a hint of apprehension.
He had all the information to hand, some in his head, other pieces of data — such as the IP address of the Egyptian market trader in Cairo — written down on a folded piece of paper tucked inside his wallet. He walked a few yards down the road to one of the cafés that dot the streets of Rome, sat down and ordered a drink, and then quickly composed a message that included all the information that the Englishman had demanded. He read it through twice to make sure that he’d covered all the details, then pressed the button which would send the text into the ether.
Rather sooner than he’d expected, his phone beeped to signal the arrival of not one, but two text messages. The first one listed the times of day when Morini was to be available on his mobile phone and outside the physical limits of the Vatican City. When he saw these, Morini knew it was going to be difficult for him, but it was at least possible. The second message was longer. It contained a name and a telephone number in Cairo and then a very detailed list of orders, which Morini was to pass to this man.
When he read through this section of the message — and began to understand the implications of the instructions he was about to give — Morini’s resolve began to waver. The cold and clinical directions sent by the Englishman admitted of only one possible result. Morini knew, without the slightest hint of a doubt, that if — when — he contacted the P2 representative in Cairo, within a matter of days, or possibly even hours, a human being, a man he’d never met, was going to die.
For several minutes, Morini walked the streets of Rome, lost in thought and struggling to reconcile what he knew had to be done with what his conscience was screaming at him. Eventually, he stopped on the corner of a narrow alleyway where a wood and metal seat was positioned, and sat down with a deep sigh. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head in prayer.
But whatever help or inspiration he was seeking didn’t materialize, and after a short time he stood up again, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and took his mobile out of his pocket. He knew he really had no choice. No choice at all.
He made sure he could not be overheard, and then dialled the number he had been given for a man named Jalal Khusad in Cairo.
For a few seconds after he’d ended the call Morini didn’t move, just bowed his head in prayer again, his lips moving silently.
13
‘Can you do it, Ali?’ Anum Husani asked.
He was sitting with a man in a small café near the centre of the city. Ali Mohammed was a slightly overweight man with a round face and delicate, almost effeminate, features and wearing a crisp white suit. He wasn’t Husani’s only contact on the museum circuit in Cairo, but in this case he was the most useful, because he had access to sophisticated testing and investigation equipment in the section of the museum where he worked.
Ali Mohammed took a small sip of the thick, almost black liquid from the tiny cup in front of him. He replaced the cup on the table, looked up at Husani and shook his head.
‘It might not be as simple or as definitive as you seem to think, Anum. I know you believe that I can just switch on some machine, stick a sample in it somewhere and wait for it to tell me everything there is to know about it, but it really isn’t like that. You’ve told me you’ve bought a piece of parchment with some writing on it. A few of the words are legible but the vast majority are not. I do have equipment in the laboratory which can read letters which have faded badly, but it all depends on how and why they’ve faded — whether it’s just because of the age of the piece, or if there’s some other reason, like water damage or bleaching by the sun.’
Mohammed drained the last of his coffee with a single swallow, grimaced as he tasted a few of the grains on his tongue, and took a sip of water to clear his palate.
‘It’s quite possible,’ he went on, ‘that I’ll be able to read everything on the parchment as clearly as if it had been written yesterday. It’s also possible that I won’t be able to decipher any more of the text than you have already read. That’s what you have to understand. I can make no promises at all. Now, do you still want me to go ahead?’
Husani nodded. Every time he had approached Mohammed with requests of this sort, to ask the man to unofficially use some of his laboratory equipment to help date a relic or elucidate some ancient writing, he had had to sit through a similar kind of explanation. He almost knew the words by heart.
But he didn’t mind, because although Mohammed always appeared somewhat reluctant, the man had invariably agreed to carry out every investigation he had requested, and in almost every case he had achieved entirely satisfactory results. In return, Husani had paid him a cash sum which wasn’t so large that it would embarrass the scientist, but certainly big enough to ensure that Mohammed was always pleased to see him.
‘Ali, my friend, of course I want you to go ahead. And if you find that you can’t help me at all, I’m still very grateful that you’re prepared to even try.’
Husani reached down to the beige canvas messenger bag that was resting against one of the legs of the table at which they were sitting.
‘You’ve got it with you?’ Mohammed sounded surprised.
‘Of course I have. It’s only a single sheet of parchment, and weighs almost nothing. I thought that if you decided you were able to look at it, I could hand it over to you straight away.’