——————— ◆ ———————
Grand Lodge of Ethiopia
Addis Ababa
The Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia
Africa
Grand Master Samson Kelile looked around his historic office in Addis Ababa’s old colonial Grand Lodge building.
Behind him, in pride of place on the main wall, hung a large embossed warrant covered in ornate calligraphy and an array of imposing seals. It was dated 1941, when the British had been in Ethiopia helping patriot forces expel the Italian fascist occupiers. It was signed at the bottom by the Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of England himself, chartering the practice of Free and Accepted Masonry in Ethiopia under the authority of the newly created Grand Lodge in Addis Ababa.
Kelile swivelled his chair round and looked at the elaborate document with pride, as he always did. Not only did it prove that everything was in order, that Ethiopian freemasonry was bound by an umbilical cord to the world’s premier Grand Lodge in London—but just as important to him, it had been presented to his grandfather, Ethiopia’s first Grand Master.
Growing up, Kelile had been in awe of the ‘gentle Craft’, and the day his grandfather had initiated him into freemasonry in that very building had been the proudest of his life.
In his turn, he had been thrilled to rise through the mysterious ranks of Entered Apprentice, Fellow Craft, and Master Mason. The ceremonies had been baffling and intriguing, but not nearly as bizarre and arcane as those he was to experience afterwards.
When he became a Master Mason, he thought he had seen everything freemasonry had to offer. But after a few years he had been invited to join other freemasonic orders, where he mixed in increasingly exclusive and elite circles that most freemasons had no idea even existed.
Six years ago, in recognition of his loyal service, his freemasonic brothers had bestowed the ultimate honour on him, appointing him Grand Master of Ethiopia, just like his grandfather. It was the achievement of a lifetime.
Although at the time he thought he had seen it all, a few months later he had been invited into the ultra-exclusive Strict Rite Knights Templar of the Holy City. To his rising excitement, as he worked his way ever deeper into the order, he had gradually become aware of an inner circle at its centre—an order within the order. At first he sensed it only hazily, in glimpses, but it seemed to be somehow connected with the whole organization of freemasonry, from the top to the bottom. No one ever spoke to him about the inner order, yet he knew with increasing certainty it was there and it was real.
Then one day he had been tapped lightly on the shoulder at a select gathering of the Strict Rite, and a discrete request was made. He was passed a telephone number, and asked to call it if ever a certain event occurred.
He never thought it would, and he had thought less and less about it as the years went by. No one ever mentioned it to him again, and over time he had come to wonder if maybe someone in the order had been playing a practical joke on him.
But he was not laughing as he heard the news on the radio about the blaze in the chapel of the
Tabot,
at the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum. There were no further details. But it was enough.
He knew what he had to do.
He gazed up at the solemn portraits of the Grand Masters who had gone before him. They were wearing their full ceremonial regalia, bristling with medals—or jewels, as they were called. He wondered if any of them had known when they joined the ‘Craft’ just how deep the waters of freemasonry ran. He certainly had not. But he was not complaining. Far from it. To belong to one of the most powerful organizations in the world was a privilege and an honour. Still more to be called upon as one of its trusted sentinels.
He turned the radio off and walked quickly over to the safe in the far wall. Spinning the tumblers, he removed an envelope and opened it, taking out a small card before sitting back at his desk again.
He placed the stiff white card on the shiny mahogany surface in front of him and stared at it for a moment before picking up the smoky black telephone receiver and dialling a +968 number in Oman.
“
As-salaamu aleikum
, how can I help you?” The voice spoke perfect English.
Even though years of making freemasonic speeches had cured Kelile of almost all nerves, he found himself needing to steady his voice. “I bring news from the East.” He knew that Addis Ababa was about one-and-a-half thousand miles south-west of Oman—but this was not a statement of geography.
“What day is it?” the voice asked.
“The 13th of October 1307,” Kelile answered without hesitation.
“And who are you?” The voice spoke crisply.
“A knight of vengeance.” Kelile knew the sequence of questions and answers by heart.
“Do you bring anything?” There was a hint of urgency in the voice.
“Fidelity and honour.” Kelile answered quickly.
There was a pause. Kelile heard the phone clicking through to a different extension.
Another voice—older this time. The English was again perfect. “Speak, Brother Kelile. Tell us your news from the East.”
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Yesil District
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Peter DeVere of MI6 was not waiting for Ava when she arrived in Astana. He was tied up on official business all day, but had left instructions to be picked up outside the
Zaraysk
restaurant after dinner.
As Ava’s car pulled up, she instantly recognized the figure standing just inside the restaurant, which was decorated as a kitsch Russian village house. She could even see a hay-cart near the door.
DeVere was as slim as ever, despite being in his early sixties. He still sported the same distinctive dark-rimmed glasses he had worn for as long as she could remember, although she was surprised to see he was nearly completely bald, save for a horseshoe of white hair skirting the back of his head.
“Let’s not hang about,” he announced jovially, climbing into the large four-wheel drive. “And it’s always a good idea to keep things locked down around here,” he added, pushing the button to close the window beside him.
As the car pulled away, he turned to Ava with a warm grin. Reaching for her shoulders, he gave her a strong hug. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you!”
Ava had spent the flight wondering how she would react when she saw him. Now she was looking at him sitting in the car next to her, she could feel the emotional conflict intensifying. He had once been a good friend, and she felt instantly warm towards him as the memories rushed back. Yet at the same time he represented a world she had fallen wholeheartedly out of love with—one she no longer saw the same way he did, and she knew it would be a gulf between them.
“I should’ve known you’d be mixed up in this,” she answered, returning the hug quickly.
“Well, you know, I’m not one to shy away from the interesting stuff.” He beamed at her before settling back into his seat. “Are you joining us again, then?” There was a sparkle in his eyes. “We’d be thrilled to have you back, you know. We don’t get your calibre very often.”
She smiled briefly. “So who are the people holding the Ark?” she asked, deflecting the question, not yet ready to discuss her personal life with him, and not wanting to ruin the moment.
DeVere glanced over at Prince, who appeared cramped and uncomfortable despite the size of the SUV.
The tall American nodded.
“They belong to the RMF,” he explained, his voice now serious, “a Marxist guerilla faction from Congo. As you know, Congo is a dramatically failed state, like Yemen or the Sudan. The war of 1998–2003, the ‘African World War’, was the deadliest conflict since the Second World War, and the aftershocks are still being felt. It may seem a long way away, but Congo is no sideshow. After Algeria, it’s Africa’s largest country—eighteen times the size of England.”
He sat back in the SUV’s large upholstered seat. “Yesterday, a militia of the RMF, led by a minor warlord named Aristide Kimbaba, broke into the sacred compound of the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum and stole the Ark from the solitary guardian monk. There’s evidence they tortured the monk to death, although the picture is a little unclear as the body was incinerated beyond recognition when the building went up in flames.”
Ava shuddered. Since leaving the Firm, she had not missed the violence that seemed to be an obligatory part of the background to every operation.
DeVere continued. “The demands received from the RMF require the American and British governments to ensure the United Nations recognizes the RMF
junta
as the new military government of Congo. If we don’t, they’ll sell the Ark to the Iranians—which they rightly predict will set all Hell loose.”
He paused. “At this stage, we have no option other than to take their claims and threats seriously. But before we make any irreversible decisions, we obviously need to verify if the Ark is genuine or not. Therefore, they’ve agreed to let in an inspector and a technical assistant.”
Prince looked across at Ava. “Dr Curzon, you’re in charge of physically examining and verifying the Ark. We’ve put together a bag of equipment you might find useful—magnifiers, a microscope, regular and UV lighting, and a few tools. It won’t be the same as having the Ark in a lab, but I hope it’s adequate.”
Ava nodded. She would clearly have to make do with whatever was available.
“Major Ferguson, you’re Dr Curzon’s bag carrier. You’re also responsible for her security,” she added.
“When’s the rendezvous?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“In thirty minutes, at the Republika Fountain,” DeVere confirmed. “The contacts will be driving a red Mercedes with a white stripe on the bonnet. They’ll take you directly to the Ark.”
Ava stared out of the smoked-glass window. Beyond the city, the vast landscape was bleak and uninspiring. She had never been to the steppes before, and knew little of the region other than it had been a wilderness throughout history—infamous for its brutal Gulag camps, where millions of Soviet political prisoners were ‘processed’ from the 1920s to 1950s.
A tourist poster at the airport had proudly proclaimed that Astana had been the capital of Kazakhstan since 1997, when the government had relocated its historical powerbase from ancient Almaty on the borders with Kyrgyzstan and China to Astana in the north, where the population was more resolutely Russian.
Gazing out into the Kazakh night, Astana appeared to Ava just like she imagined a former Soviet city would—dull and monochrome, with a smattering of hi-tech buildings that had shot up since the fall of the Union.
As they passed a spectacularly tall tower of twisted white latticework supporting an immense golden egg, she realized Prince was talking to her. “Dr Curzon, you and Major Ferguson need to get out here. Good luck.”
It had been agreed that DeVere would stay in the car with the driver. He would note down the red Mercedes’s number plate, then tail it once Ava and Ferguson were inside.
At the same time, Prince would be on foot in the area around the Republika fountain. Once she had seen Ava and Ferguson get into the Mercedes, she would jump into a waiting car and join DeVere in tailing them. At the same time, a vanload of Kazakh National Security Committee commandos would be in the vicinity on standby, in permanent radio communication with DeVere and Prince in case anything went wrong.
Ava stepped out of the SUV and breathed in the cold night air, pulling her coat closer around her shoulders.
The fountain was dead ahead. Through gaps in the traffic, she caught glimpses of its four monumental grey stone fish spraying jets of icy shimmering water high into the night air.
She watched DeVere’s car move to the other side of the fountain. To her right, she spotted Prince stop by an all-night refreshment kiosk about twenty-five yards off. The man sitting in it looked cold and bored.
Ava checked her watch.
11:45 p.m. Still time to kill.
Standing on the pavement side by side, she and Ferguson looked for all the world like a carefree tourist couple admiring the fountain. All that was missing were the guidebooks and cameras.
The bag of equipment Prince had given her was on the pavement between them. It was a large white canvas holdall, doubling as the identifying signal for the militiamen to recognize them.
“So you know all about me?” she asked, looking straight ahead and not at Ferguson. “The DIA file you had in Qatar seemed pretty detailed.”
His expression remained fixed.
“What about you?” she asked, aware she knew nothing about him. “What’s your role in this?”
“I enjoy exotic travel,” he answered non-committally, as he continued to scan the traffic.
Ava stamped her feet to warm them up. “You can do better than that,” she pressed him. “I know an ex-soldier when I see one.”
He turned to look at the roads leading to the roundabout. “What do you remember of your hostage training?”
Ava was in no mood for a lecture. “I always assumed I’d have a fulfilling relationship with my captors and develop Stockholm syndrome.”
“I’m being serious,” he cut in, watching a group of drunken men approaching. “There are rules that could save your life.”
“I can look after myself,” she answered bluntly, turning to look him full in the face. “I appreciate you coming along, but I didn’t ask for a babysitter, and I don’t need one—”
He grabbed her arm firmly, nodding towards the far side of the fountain.
Now visible through the shimmering silvery spray, she could see a red Mercedes with a white stripe on its bonnet swinging around towards them through the traffic.
She looked over to where DeVere was parked on the other side of the fountain.
Good. He was watching.
She had spent years of her life growing up in Africa avoiding putting herself or anyone else in unnecessary danger from warlords and militiamen. It was not a habit she was keen to break now, and she was reassured to know there was backup.
As the Mercedes drew closer, she could feel her breath quickening.
The men in the Mercedes spotted her, and she subtly glanced towards DeVere again to make sure he had seen them.
Bad timing.
A double-length articulated blue passenger bus was snaking around the fountain—completely blocking DeVere’s view of the rendezvous.
Her heart began to beat faster.
The bus appeared to be stationary as the Mercedes’s doors opened, and four men got out. They were wearing thick outer clothing and heavy woollen hats.
Ava looked again in DeVere’s direction.
His view was still blocked.
She breathed deeply.
She could see Prince over by the kiosk, furiously punching numbers into her mobile phone.
Ferguson had also spotted the problem. He glanced across at Ava.
“We continue,” she confirmed, anticipating his question. The blue bus would clear the roundabout in a moment.
Ferguson signaled to the approaching militiamen. They covered the ground rapidly, closing in on her and Ferguson. As they did so, the Mercedes pulled away and rejoined the traffic.
Ava felt a rough spike of adrenaline course through her.
What was happening?
This was not the plan.
She looked across at Prince, who was speaking hurriedly into the microphone on her phone’s hands-free cord.
As Ava glanced across at the Mercedes, she saw it exit the roundabout and drive off into the night.
On the pavement, the militiamen were now no more than three yards away.
Her senses were all firing as she looked back to where DeVere was parked.
This was not good.
DeVere had pulled out, and was now swinging around the roundabout, following the Mercedes.
She took a deep breath. DeVere had obviously assumed she and Ferguson were in the Mercedes. But by now Prince must have explained to him what had happened, so he would just go around the roundabout and return to where he had previously been parked up.
But she had no time to think about it any further. The four militiamen had moved around her and Ferguson, surrounding them. They had their hands deep in their coat pockets, and from the telltale bulges, it was clear they were holding concealed handguns.
The plan had evidently changed.
“Walk,” one of them ordered gruffly in a thick Congolese accent. “Quickly.”
The group moved off, with Ava and Ferguson being steered by the armed men behind them.
Ava scanned the road ahead for the replacement vehicle they were switching to. It seemed logical. The militiamen were being methodical, cleaning off any unwanted tails. In the old days, she would probably have done the same. Still, it was good to know that Prince, and by now hopefully DeVere, were close by and would simply follow the new vehicle.
As they headed away from the roundabout, Ava could periodically feel the padded barrel of a handgun jabbing into her lower back. Around her on the pavement, pedestrians and evening revellers walked past, oblivious.
With mounting concern, Ava realized she could not see any vehicles with open doors. She strained to look about in all directions, but could identify no one obviously waiting for them.
What were they doing?
Before she had time to think, the man behind her spoke again. “In here,” He indicated an open steel door, behind which Ava could hear the deep thump of heavy pulsating music.
It looked like some sort of nightclub.
As the men pushed her though the metal-reinforced entranceway, she felt a blast of warm air from the overdoor heaters as the earsplitting sub-bass thuds of the techno trance music hit her.
Scanning the room quickly, she could just make out a long dark bar bathed in a neon blue-black glow. Disorientated by the light and noise, she had no time to register anything else before she felt a gun in her back again, propelling her forwards, more roughly this time.
The militiaman steered her towards the grey steel door of an industrial elevator being held open by another member of the team, clearly waiting for them.
As she was shoved into the elevator, Ferguson glanced towards her, and his expression told her everything she needed to know.
These guys were professionals.