Free Pharaoh by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

entrance to the Valley of the Temples it stopped and switched off its headlights. The six columns of the Great Temple rose towards the starry sky, like the pillars of infinity, and the man in the back seat marvelled at the spectacle in silence, listening to the voice of his soul. He thought of all those he had seen die in the countless clashes that had punctuated his life: dying in bombings or in battle, mowed down by machine guns, ripped apart by mines and grenades. He thought of those he had seen die of starvation and desperation, of disease and injuries, and he thought of all their restless souls wandering through the desert night.
    Despite everything, this was one of the rare moments when he could rest his body and his mind, this moment of waiting. He rolled down the window and lit up the last of the three cigarettes a day his doctor allowed him and looked up at the starry black sky. It was times like this that reminded him of his childhood and his youth, the parents he had known for such a short time, the women he hadn’t been able to love, the studies he hadn’t been able to finish, the friends he hadn’t been able to see. Because there had never been time enough.
    He thought of the people he had had dealings with: petroleum princes and emirs, tyrants out only for power and money, religious leaders who were sometimes cynical and sometimes visionary, young men devoured by hate and fanaticism, consumed by their frustration at not being able to possess the fetishes of Western wealth, secret service agents playing on both sides, bankers who’d got rich on the poor through the most filthy speculation.
    He had used them all, as much as he had despised them, and not a single one of them had learned his real identity. He was waiting for the day of reckoning, when the most ambitious plan ever conceived by an Arab since the time of the Battle of Tours would give him victory over his enemies, the leadership of a nation extending from the Himalayas to the Atlantic Ocean. And the control of a third of the energy resources of the entire planet.
    He started when a man dressed in black emerged from the darkness and began to walk towards the car, drawing closer and nodding at him. He nodded in response, got out of the car and followed to a low mud-plastered house. The man let him in.
    He was an old man with curved shoulders and eyes dimmed by cataracts. ‘Welcome, effendi,’ he greeted him.
    ‘What news do you have?’
    ‘Good news. I was told to tell you: “Three donkeys have been
    bought at the market of Samarkand as you ordered, paying a proper price. Now the donkey keeper is bringing each one to its stable, as you ordered.”’
    The guest nodded his approval. ‘Praise Allah,’ he said. ‘Everything is proceeding for the best. Now, my good friend, you will tell the young men who are coming on the pilgrimage with me that I need to see them. Three of them will meet me in Bethlehem, three in Nablus and three in Gaza.’
    ‘Shall I arrange lodging for you at Mecca, effendi?’
    ‘No, my friend. This is a pilgrimage that we’ll be doing the old way, on camelback. You needn’t do anything else.’
    They embraced and the guest walked back to his car, which was waiting at the foot of the columns of Baalbek. The old man watched him go, disappearing like a shadow from his uncertain sight, then he turned to the Temple. The columns seemed like giants on sentry duty in the middle of the night, ensuring that no curious eyes would see the small man hurrying off.
    The old man had never seen him before, and would not have been able to describe him later, except for his black-and-white-checked keffiyeh and his grey jacket worn over a white jellaba. But he knew that he had spoken with the man most wanted on the face of this earth, he who above all others his enemies dreamed of having within their grasp.
    Abu Ahmid.
    T HE AIR of Bethlehem was still fragrant with incense and the city still bustled with activity so soon after Christmas.