82.

THE EXCAVATION.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN.

Thursday, 20 July 2006. 9:23 a.m.

'Wake up, Padre.'

Fowler came to slowly, not knowing exactly where he was. He only knew that his whole body hurt. He was unable to move his arms because they were handcuffed above his head. The cuffs were somehow pinned to the wall of the canyon.

When he opened his eyes he verified this, as well as the ident.i.ty of the person who had been trying to wake him up. Torres was standing in front of him.

A big smile.

'I know you understand me,' said the soldier in Spanish. 'I prefer to talk in my own language. I can handle the subtle details much better that way.'

'There's nothing subtle about you,' said the priest in Spanish.

'You're wrong, Padre. On the contrary, one of the things that made me famous in Colombia was the way I've always used nature to help me. I have small friends who do my work for me.'

'So you're the one who put the scorpions in Ms Otero's sleeping bag,' Fowler said, trying to pull the handcuffs loose without Torres noticing. It was useless. They were fastened to the canyon wall with a steel nail that had been driven into the rock.

'I appreciate your efforts, Padre. But no matter how hard you pull, those handcuffs are not going to move,' said Torres. 'But you're right. I wanted to get your little Spanish b.i.t.c.h. It didn't work. So now I have to wait for our friend Alryk. I think he's abandoned us. He must be enjoying himself with your two wh.o.r.e friends. I hope he screws them both before he blows their heads off. Blood is so difficult to wash off your uniform.'

Fowler yanked at the cuffs, blind with anger and unable to control himself.

'Come here, Torres. You come here!'

'Hey, hey! What's up?' said Torres, enjoying the fury on Fowler's face. 'I like seeing you p.i.s.sed off. My little friends are going to love this.'

The priest looked in the direction Torres was pointing. Not far from Fowler's feet was a mound on the sand with a few red forms moving about on top of it.

'Solenopsis catusianis. I don't really know any Latin, but I do know that these ants are f.u.c.king serious, Padre. I was very lucky to find one of their hills so close by. I love to watch them work and I haven't seen them do their thing for a while . . .'

Torres squatted down and picked up a rock. He stood up, played with the rock for a few moments, then stepped back a few paces.

'But today it looks as if they're going to work extra hard, Padre. My little friends have teeth like you wouldn't believe. But that's not all. The best part is when they stick their stinger into you and inject the poison. Here, let me show you.'

He brought back his arm and lifted his knee like a baseball pitcher, then hurled the rock. It hit the mound, destroying the top of it.

It was as if a red fury had come alive on the sand. The ants swarmed out of the nest in their hundreds. Torres stepped back a little further and threw another rock, this time in an arc so that it landed halfway between Fowler and the nest. The red ma.s.s was still for a moment and then charged at the rock, making it disappear beneath its anger.

Torres stepped back even more slowly and threw another rock, which landed about a foot and a half from Fowler. Once again the ants advanced on the rock until the ma.s.s was no more than eight inches from the priest. Fowler could hear the crackling of the insects. It was an ugly, frightening sound like someone shaking a paper bag full of bottle caps.

They use movement to guide themselves. Now he'll throw another rock closer to me so that I move. If I do that, I'm done for, Fowler thought.

And that's exactly what happened. The fourth rock fell at Fowler's feet and the ants converged on it immediately. Slowly, Fowler's boots were covered by a sea of ants that grew by the second as new ones emerged from the nest. Torres threw more rocks at the ants which became even angrier, as if the smell of their smashed brothers added to their desire for vengeance.

'Admit it, Padre. You're f.u.c.ked,' Torres said.

The soldier threw another rock, this time not aiming at the ground but at Fowler's head. It missed by two inches and fell on the red tide that was moving like an angry vortex.

Torres bent down once more and chose a smaller rock, which he could throw more easily. He aimed carefully and let it fly. The rock hit the priest on the forehead. Fowler fought back the pain and the urge to move.

'You'll give up sooner or later, Padre. I plan to spend the morning like this.'

He bent down again, looking for ammunition, but had to stop as his walkie-talkie crackled into life.

'Torres, Dekker here. Where the f.u.c.k are you?'

'Taking care of the priest, sir.'

'Leave that to Alryk, he'll be back soon. I promised him, and as Schopenhauer said, a great man treats his promises as divine laws.'

'Roger, sir.'

'Report to Nest One.'

'With all due respect, sir, it's not my turn.'

'With all due respect, if you're not up at Nest One in thirty seconds I'll find you and skin you alive. Do you copy?'

'I copy, Colonel.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Over and out.'

Torres returned the walkie-talkie to his belt and slowly began walking back. 'You heard him, Padre. Since the explosion, there are only five of us, so we're going to have to postpone our game for a couple of hours. When I get back you'll be in worse shape. n.o.body can sit still for that long.'

Fowler watched as Torres rounded the bend of the canyon near the entrance. His relief didn't last long.

Some of the ants on his boots were beginning to inch their way up his trouser leg.

83.

AL-QAHIRA METEOROLOGICAL INSt.i.tUTE.

CAIRO, EGYPT.

Thursday, 20 July 2006. 9:56 a.m.

It wasn't even ten in the morning and the junior meteorologist's shirt was already soaked through. He had been on the phone the whole morning doing someone else's job. It was the height of the summer season and everyone who was anyone had left and was on the sh.o.r.e of Sharm El Sheikh, pretending to be an expert diver.

But this was one task that could not be postponed. The beast that was approaching was too dangerous.

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 aleik.u.m, this is Jawar Ibn Dawud, from the Al-Qahira Meteorological Inst.i.tute.'

'Aleik.u.m 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 ma.s.s. It's extremely hot and it's headed your way.'

'A simoon? Coming this way? s.h.i.t, 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 carca.s.s 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 n.o.body sails before tonight, OK? If not, you'll be collecting mummies in the morning.'

84.

THE EXCAVATION.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN.

Thursday, 20 July 2006. 11:07 a.m.

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.

I don't understand why I feel so good. Is it being close to the Ark that is making me feel like this? Or is it this narrow uterus, this hot well that soothes me and suits me?

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.

If it hadn't been for Jacob, none of this could ever have happened.

85.

Transcript of the communication between the crew of the Behemoth Behemoth and Jacob Russell and Jacob Russell 20 July 2006

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