Eagle of Darkness

This book was first published in 2002 (The Present), shortly after nine-eleven, and reflects the political, military, religious and international situation at that time, before the 2003 invasion of Iraq. The technology is therefore the technology of 2002, which is why fax machines rather than the mobile Internet are in regular use, and so are public phone boxes (a dying breed now). Modern battlefield drones are far in advance of the basic Gideon drones here. The world of technology has changed so much in a few short years, and of course is changing still.

The only alterations I have made in this North View Publishing 2015 edition of Eagle of Darkness are minor edits and small additions that make some things clearer, but these do not change the plot or update the technology in any way. It is important to realize that it wasn't until later that websites like Facebook (2004) and Twitter (2006) became available to subscribers throughout the world, allowing users to spread information quickly and widely.

According to one biblical tradition, the Hebrews are descended from Shem, one of Noah's sons. Shem was the great grandfather of Heber (or Eber), although this origin of the name is not accepted by everyone. The Institute of Egyptologists in this story has understood the name Sons of Heber in their prophecy to be the Hebrews, and then by inference to indicate modern Israel. No one investigating the prophecy challenges this interpretation, so please accept it too as you read this work of fiction. (No correspondence on this, please!)

Christopher Wright

Prologue

The large bird from Mitzrayim will destroy the chicks of the people on the holy mountain who will mourn their leaders.

A MIXTURE of hysteria and paralysis gripped the passengers as the explosion ripped away the rear of the aircraft. An icy blast roared through the cabin, scattering top secret papers and baggage. Several seats disappeared from sight, spiraling into space with their screaming occupants.

A few of the remaining passengers attempted to stand, but the increasing angle of the dive made standing impossible. Most gripped their armrests with white knuckled hands, trying to recall half-forgotten prayers as the dark blue water of the Mediterranean rose to meet them. There would be no survivors.

At a stroke, several Israeli cabinet ministers had been erased. Three days earlier the Institute of Egyptologists had predicted the destruction of the special mission from Jerusalem to Cairo. The prophecy of a major air disaster had been clear, and even the date was exact. But no one in authority paid any attention before the fatal flight. The findings of the Institute of Egyptologists seemed unimportant.

The Partners at the Institute were shocked by the tragedy, yes, but mostly they were elated. If proof were needed, they told each other, this was surely it. This was their third clear prediction in the past year. But there was little coverage in the press.

In Virginia, Martin Kramer reacted with frustration at the lack of media attention. He needed to generate worldwide interest in the prophecies, and he needed to do it immediately. The Eagle of Darkness was almost ready to fly.

Chapter 1

England

THE MAN stepped out of the shadows, blocking the way into the house. Mr. Sam Bolt? he asked quietly.

Sam stopped, the door key in his hand. If the thin man in the long raincoat was wearing a trilby hat with a press card pushed into the rim, he'd be a dead ringer for a reporter from a 1940s B movie.

What are you doing here, Tolley? Sam snapped. Come to accuse me of killing my partner? Again?

The man already had his notebook open. I think maybe we can help each other. He looked up and smiled.

Bill Tolley, the Sniffing Ferret. Sam shook his head. Hasn't Fleet Street got rid of you yet?

The smile disappeared instantly. Now, Sam -- may I call you Sam? -- I don't invent the news. I only report it.

With innuendo. Why the hell should I talk to you?

I have some information.

About my partner?

The reporter shook his head.

My children? The money?

Sam, Sam, it's freezing out here. You're going to have to let me in.

Sam Bolt put the key in the door. Three months ago Tolley had been a persistent problem, like a neighbor's dog that never stops barking. This had better be good, he said.

I want you to run back over the events when your partner went missing.

I don't like your tone, Sam warned.

Do you want me to run a piece for you on police victimization?

"Press victimization, you mean."

Bill Tolley pointed to the front door. Let's start at the beginning. Can we go in?

Sam sighed loudly, but decided it would be as well to keep on the good side of this reporter from the Morning Herald. He showed him into the lounge. Leave your coat on, sit down, and don't muck up the furniture.

Tolley referred to something in his notebook. Your partner Sally won ten million.

See, you're making it up as you go along. You know perfectly well it was just over two million. Sam stayed on his feet. I think you'd better leave.

Bill Tolley sank back into the large sofa. Okay, so she won well over two million. And she decided to keep it for herself.

Yes.

Did you have a problem with your relationship?

What the hell business is it of yours, Tolley?

The reporter studied his notebook again, although he probably knew his questions off by heart -- and most of the answers as well. You told the police that Sally had bought the lottery ticket with her own money, so the winnings were hers.

Technically, yes.

Very noble of you.

We weren't married, so I didn't stand a chance. That's what her lawyers said.

Then she left you -- you say.

Look, if you know where Sally is, tell me. I want my two children back.

Tolley nodded and wrote down something briefly. Yes, that's a bad one. Of course, Sally gave up her job when you ... she ... won the money.

Sally was a typist. Who wants to type when they've got two million in the bank?

"Over two million. Tolley flicked his notebook shut. Have you ever wondered what your partner was doing at the Institute of Egyptologists?"

She typed letters for them. That's what typists do.

And reports?

Probably.

Bring anything home?

Not that I know. Why?

Would you say they're a weird lot?

He knew he should never have let the man through the front door. He could imagine the headlines in the Herald tomorrow, implying he still had something to hide. Sally didn't like the place, but it was a job.

And you've no idea where she is now?

I don't know, and I don't care. All I want is to get the kids back from Social Services.

Have you considered that your partner might still be at the Institute, with Dr. Wynne? Tolley leaned forward with a studied earnestness. He might have brainwashed her.

Like a cult? For a moment he felt caught unawares. The possibility had never occurred to him before. What makes you say that?

Who knows what that crazy lot are up to? They seem to have their finger on something. There's talk of war in the Middle East. The Israelis have been acting offensively lately.

They're on the defensive, said Sam. They're caught in the middle with all these terrorist reprisals.

They're caught on the back foot, said Tolley. And suddenly the Arab nations are afraid of being nuked by them.

I heard. But I can't imagine that lot up the street are selling Israel the bombs.

Of course not, but they popped up all of a sudden to tell us it's been predicted. Tolley seemed to be running through a well prepared speech. One moment there's a few old duffers at the Institute of Egyptologists muttering about an ancient Egyptian god called Aten, and now they're fixing up a press conference to tell us about the end of the world.

I didn't know.

That's why I'm telling you.

You're enjoying this, taunted Sam. You're just about finished as a reporter, but you think you could be a star again.

Tolley held up his hands. Me? With a bloody piss artist for an editor?

You're investigating the Institute!

The reporter yawned. I'll probably be making a fool of myself but, yes, I'm interested in what Dr. Wynne is doing.

Careful you don't overdo the enthusiasm.

It's only a temporary attack. Bill Tolley stretched out full length on the sofa, and yawned again as he swung his legs up onto the arm. It doesn't matter how long you've been in the game, the world always springs surprises on us. You still flying those jets?

I've been under suspicion of murder, Sam muttered. This reporter was a menace. The airline was happy to let me go. They thought the passengers wouldn't be too pleased if they knew a murderer had his hands on the controls.

Is that an admission?

Sam stood up. For Pete's sake, Tolley, can't you even recognize sarcasm?

She might be out there. Tolley pointed to the back of the house.

She'll be cold if she is.

Not if she's six feet under.

She's not. The police dug up the garden eight weeks ago.

Did they find any clues?

I think you'd know if they did.

Okay, would you have her back?

You're not serious, I hope.

Tolley opened to his notebook again. Ever thought about checking up on the Institute one night? If your partner's shacked up at there, it would prove you didn't murder her.

I'm not breaking in. Tolley's visit was starting to make sense.

You could look through the windows.

What's in it for you?

I'll tell you what, Sam. My new editor is still wet behind the ears. I started to write something to send the Institute up, but he wouldn't have it. Said he wanted a sympathetic approach, not a lampoon. Wrote something groveling himself for the Sunday supplement a couple of weeks ago.

And you're still mad at him?

He believes all this rubbish from Dr. Gresley Wynne. Tell me, Sam, what sense is there in being motivated nowadays?

Look, Tolley, I don't care what drives you, but whatever it is you're planning, you're not doing it with me.

I was hoping you'd help me dig the dirt on the Institute.

What, snoop around for you? You haven't got a hope in hell. You and the police have ruined my life.

Tolley stood up and waved his notebook. Before I go, Sam, tell me one thing. You're definitely innocent?

Right, that's it. He caught the reporter by the back of his long coat and propelled him out through the front door.

Chapter 2

Cairo, Egypt

THE MAN found himself sweating, in spite of the cool November afternoon. The large Mitsubishi off-roader looked too smart for this area of the river, and he was painfully aware of too many eyes watching the bright blue vehicle as he pulled away from the water's edge onto the firm tarmac.

He half expected the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian secret service, to be waiting for him here on the Gezira waterfront, demanding to check his load. He floored the throttle and swung into the afternoon traffic. The sudden acceleration and the protesting tires drew even more attention, but his nerves would allow nothing less. The fume-filled streets would take him south, away from the hectic city.

The unsteady ticking from the instrument on the front passenger seat became steadier now and he began to relax. He glanced at the reading. Just under fifty counts. Insufficient radiation was coming off the crate to cause any health problems, as long as the journey up the Nile highway lasted less than the estimated two hours.

*

Beni Mazar, Egypt

THE INDUSTRIAL complex on the outskirts of Beni Mazar came into sight two hours and fifteen minutes later, the site looking derelict. A small Coca Cola sign hung from an abandoned stone building on the corner, its enamel paint rusty from many stone chips.

He slowed and checked his mirror again. He'd attracted absolutely no attention on the journey south. Ahmed's photographs at the briefing seemed to have been adequate for the purpose. The empty warehouse across the sandy yard was exactly as he'd expected, and the key fitted the door. It was as though he'd been here before. The photographs weren't just adequate: they were excellent.

The Arabic fascia in red and black, advertising the Alexandria Packing Company, had peeled in the bright sun, and the blue paint on the door looked ancient and powdery. All around the musty interior he could see signs of previous occupation: pallets and broken boxes. The place must have been empty for over a year. Warily he slid the heavy packing case to the ground, down the two thick planks he'd thrown into the back of the Mitsubishi before leaving Cairo.

The instrument on the front seat stopped its irregular ticking as he dragged the container away from the Mitsubishi and into the warehouse. He'd been sweating before this exertion, and he was sweating even more freely now. Having to wear gloves didn't help. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face with his sleeve before removing a panel in the side of the crate. There were no markings, but the piece of paper in his pocket told him all he needed to know. Reaching in, he inserted the key, set the switch to the upward position, then locked it into place. The timer started running.

An anti-tamper mechanism had been fitted. Not even this key could disable it now. Any unauthorized interference would be devastating. Ahmed, the Lebanese agent, had given him definite instructions. He must not touch the switch again.

He climbed back into the bright blue off-roader. Without the high radiation source on board he could drive slowly and still be back in Cairo well before midnight, in time for a shower and a few Sakkaras. Then he would leave the Mitsubishi by the eastern approach to the el-Tahrir Bridge as arranged, and meet the woman at the bus station for his money.

As he swung the vehicle round in the sandy track he had to think for a moment, just to be absolutely sure. Up. He had definitely put the switch up. One night soon the electronic timer would trip, and in one blinding instant this area of Beni Mazar would become the focus of a nuclear nightmare.

God, he said to himself as he joined the main Cairo Aswan highway, I could be about to start Armageddon! He tried to laugh, but couldn't.

*

Cairo, Egypt

IN THE early hours of the morning a police officer stopped to urinate in a deserted alley, and found a man's body smelling of beer behind a pile of rubbish near the central bus station, close to the el-Tahrir Bridge. His throat had been slit, and the blood on his clothing still felt warm. In the man's pocket the policeman found a creased scrap of paper. Up for on was all it said.

Chapter 3

Institute of Egyptologists, England

SAM BOLT drove a hundred yards past the gates of the Institute of Egyptologists and stopped under the trees. Two cars swept along the street in swift succession but they didn't slow down. He started to feel uneasy. To approach the house through the main gates he would have to be in the open, but it seemed a better option than climbing the high wall and using the shrubbery.

He sprinted softly across the driveway and sank back into a dense hawthorn, pulling himself free of its painful spikes. The recent rain on the branches soaked his jacket, and the chill November air made him shiver. He stopped to get his breath back and take in his surroundings. Bill Tolley had been nothing but a menace, and now the reporter's stupid theories had got him into this absurd situation. If Tolley thought Sally was dead, why did he suggest she could be here at the Institute? He'd let Tolley wind him up too much.

The large house had lights on in several upstairs rooms, showing patchily through closed curtains. On the south side of the house a dazzling red light sparkled on the glass of a downstairs window. What was this, a palace of fun? Had Sally been working here giving massages?

He noticed that security lights and sensors had been mounted high on the front wall of the house, and the first one came on with a blaze that made him jump. No one seemed to be taking any notice. A person would have to be out here in the grounds to see him now.

He looked up and decided it would be best to approach the window from the side, through the shrubbery. He stayed still and waited for the light to go off on its timer. Hopefully from this close to the house he wouldn't trigger any more lights. He moved sideways cautiously until he came to the lighted window. The security light stayed off. Good, its sensor didn't pick up moving bodies this close to the walls.

Looking into the room he could see a huge mural in gold and orange that made the place look like the inside of an Egyptian temple, under a sky of brilliant stars that were projected onto the ceiling. Maybe the window could be opened from the outside.

A woman's voice spoke without warning from the darkness behind him. What are you doing here?

He jumped up and caught his head sharply on a branch on one of the shrubs. I may have the wrong address.

Does Dr. Wynne know you're here? The woman sounded American, and seemed irritated. She must have been following him closely, for the security light had not been triggered again. It wasn't going to be easy to talk his way out of this one.

Dr. Wynne? Good, that means I've got the right place.

It all seems very questionable. I'm going to get help.

Sam thought fast. Is Dr. Wynne your father?

Of course he's not.

I only came to ... check that this is the Institute of Egyptologists.

It is. Where's your car?

He decided to go on the attack. I'm Sam Bolt. Are you Mrs. Wynne?

I'm Mrs. Pulaski. Panya Pulaski.

And I suppose Mr. Pulaski is about to come along and throw me out. Well, I can save him the bother. I'm going.

The woman hesitated. There is no Mr. Pulaski. A car passed on the street, its headlights flashing on the bare branches of the woodland.

I'll be back in the morning, and I hope Dr. Wynne will be polite enough to make me welcome.

I guess you're not a burglar.

Not tonight, he said. My partner mentioned there was an American housekeeper working here. Is that you?

She seemed relieved. You know Dr. Wynne?

My partner Sally used to work for him. In the office.

There was a long pause. Then, I think I owe you an apology.

Not really. I shouldn't have come at night.

Panya Pulaski stepped back onto the path and the security light came on. She looked round the open space in front of the house. Did you walk?

I parked in the main road. That thought was unlikely to console this jumpy woman in a dark jacket done up to the neck. Under the bright overhead light he noticed her dark skin, and her long black hair pulled back and tied in a pony tail. She was probably Middle Eastern, even though she spoke with an American accent. But the name Pulaski sounded more East European than Arabic.

I heard about your ... partner, she said. She went off, didn't she?

He was about to explain, but decided that explanations could wait. He clearly wasn't going to get a look inside the big house tonight. Do you live here?

The American shook her head. I've got a couple of rooms in the Lodge. It's all right there, but it's quiet.

Quiet? Something important had been omitted. There's a problem?

Panya Pulaski gave him an old fashioned glare. I'm not discussing my life with strangers, Sam. Especially not with friends of Dr. Wynne.

Surely this thin woman in black skin-tight leggings hadn't thought he was coming on. I'm going home now, he said curtly. I'll be back tomorrow -- to see Dr. Wynne.

You've cut your head, she said suddenly, her voice thawing a little.

Don't worry about it. I caught it on that branch.

It's just that ... I don't like to see you going home bleeding.

Look the other way. I'll be fine.

You could come back to the Lodge with me and have some coffee, she said slowly. Let me put something on that cut while I dry your coat.

I wouldn't dream of it. For some unaccountable reason he found himself playing hard to get.

Please. Panya studied him carefully. I'd appreciate a bit of normal company for a change.

*

The Lodge, Institute of Egyptologists, England

TELL ME, SAM, do you have a problem with all women, or is it just with me?

Sam took a CD from the rack. He'd been patched up, given hot coffee, and a lukewarm welcome. But he found it hard to relax. I've got family problems. I shouldn't have brought them with me. I'm sorry.

We all have problems, Sam. I'm sure you're a nice enough guy, but you've got one awfully tough shell.

It's the way life's treated me.

Sally and the children? Maybe you've got a problem with the way you're treating yourself.

He felt angry. Look, if you had two children...

I don't have any children. I never will.

Yes, okay, you're right, we've all got problems. I'm just not very good at handling mine. He wasn't going to grovel. It wasn't as though he'd invited himself here. He examined the CD label. Max Bruch. I approve of your taste in music He tried to sound more sociable than he felt.

Panya smiled for the first time. I'm a fan of Bruch. I once tried playing his First Violin Concerto, and realized how talented he was.

You play the violin?

She shook her head. Not since school.

You should take it up again. It will help pass the quiet nights. He slipped the CD of the Second Violin Concerto in D minor into the player and turned the volume low so they could talk. It's good, but I like my classical music to be more exciting.

I've been meaning to get some more CDs that are lively, said Panya, but there's no decent music shop round here.

Sam sat down. He'd come for information, not chit-chat. Sally didn't like working at the big house. She found the atmosphere weird.

Panya nodded in understanding. Her large eyes were partly concealed by small glasses with thin wire frames of a deep purple color. She had an open honesty. An innocence. He'd never spent an evening alone with a woman like this. The female cabin crew were ... well, poles apart. And some were a lot more fun.

She said. If your partner worked for Dr. Wynne, you probably know much more about the place than I do. I've only been here four months.

But is it weird?

The two men in charge give me the creeps. Panya's awkward laugh turned into an embarrassed giggle. Gresley Wynne and Denby Rawlins. They're like two dirty old men in the park. They keep staring at my body and breathing hard.

Sam nodded. He couldn't see Panya's body as being especially desirable, but perhaps some men fancied her. Her black leggings emphasized her thin legs, while the navy sweatshirt hung loosely over her body. The woman looked to be in serious need of a decent meal. Are your parents American?

She touched her face. You're wondering how I got my Mediterranean skin?

Well, you don't look Scandinavian.

"My father was American. A merchant seaman from Philadelphia. He had a woman in every port, and my mother was the one in Cairo. So I guess