The Templar Cross (11 page)

The dining room of the Safari Paradise was surprisingly elegant considering that it was located in a place that, along with Timbuktu, may well have inspired the phrase “the middle of nowhere.” The white plaster walls were hung with colonial oils of Egypt and Siwa in particular, and the ceiling was crisscrossed with coffered wooden beams. The tables were covered with white linen, starched napkins fanned elaborately at each sterling silver place setting. The maître d’, whose name was Omar, wore evening clothes. There was a variety of entrées on the enormous tasseled menu, from New York strip loin and prime rib to chicken
kishk
and
kofta kebabs
. Appetizers ranged from French fries or zucchini strips to pita and
baba ghanouj
with
zabadi
-mint yogurt dip and
wara’enab
-stuffed grape leaves. They ordered from a pleasant waiter who spoke perfect English. Holliday, being the more adventurous eater, chose the chicken
kishk
and the stuffed grape leaf appetizer. Rafi ordered a cheeseburger and fries. They both ordered tea.

They were just finishing up their meal and thinking about coffee when a man materialized at their table. He was tall, broad-chested and wearing long shorts and an old-fashioned fatigue jacket with a collarless white shirt beneath it. His face was square with a full gray beard, shaggy gray hair down to his shoulders and heavy dark eyebrows over large, intelligent, pitch-black eyes. The nose was long and aquiline and would have suited a Caesar. His skin was dark as iced tea. When he spoke he showed a line of small white teeth, bright against the dark tan. He had the rich baritone voice of an actor or a politician. The accent was not quite British, Mid-Atlantic. Canadian maybe, thought Holliday, but he wasn’t absolutely sure.

“My name is Emil Abdul Tidyman,” said the man, sitting down without being asked. “I hear you’re looking for a guide.”

“What makes you think we need a guide, Mr. Tidyman?”

“Simple enough,” said the tall man with a smile. “You drive into Siwa in an old Czech Goat, which means you must have bought it outright, because nobody rents them, and if you bought a Goat you must be thinking of going somewhere the usual safari treks won’t take you. You also clearly have a military background; you walk like a soldier, and you have a soldier’s haircut and bearing. I expect at least a major, but probably a colonel.”

Tidyman shook his shaggy, gray- haired head, then continued.

“And certainly no one but an experienced officer, probably with time in Afghanistan, would know that despite its point of origin, a Czech-made Ulyanovsky Avtomobilny Zavod- 469, even well used, is a far superior vehicle for desert use than either the Land Rover or the Toyota Land Cruiser. Which, in my experience, means you probably want to go somewhere you have no business going.” Tidyman sat back in his chair. “Am I close . . . Colonel?”

Holliday ignored the question.

“Just what experience of yours would that be, Mr. Tidyman?”

“Much the same as yours, I expect,” answered the man. “But mostly confined to Africa. The Congo, specifically Katanga Province, Biafra, Angola, Sierra Leone, Equatorial Guinea . . . there are others.”

“A mercenary?”

“Soldier of fortune.”

“Macho crap for idiots who drive around with rifles in their pickup trucks. Most mercenaries I’ve run into are section eight discharges and goofs who couldn’t get through Marine basic training. Losers.”

Tidyman shrugged and smiled, showing off his pearly little teeth.

“Whatever gets you through the night, Dr. Holliday.”

“You know my name.”

“I’m an old friend of the desk clerk here.”

“You live in Siwa?”

“I summer here, you might say, I winter in cooler climes.”

“Odd choice,” said Rafi.

“One of the perks of multiple citizenship,” said Tidyman. “And one of the drawbacks. My Canadian citizenship gets me free health care, but I have to live there for several months a year. The same is true of the free dental care I get in England. My Egyptian citizenship provides me with my livelihood.”

“Neat trick,” said Holliday, laughing. “Three passports.” He was beginning to like the smooth-talking man across from him despite himself. He was very charming in a slightly devilish way. And clearly he was extremely intelligent. “How did you work that?”

“I’m the perfect expatriate,” answered Tidyman. “Never at home wherever I go. My father was a Brit, my mother was Egyptian. I was born in Cairo shortly after World War Two but raised in Canada, where I became a naturalized citizen. Unlike you hyper-patriots in the States, Canadians are quite tolerant of people with various passports. You have your melting pot, the Canadians have their mosaic. All depends on your point of view.” He smiled. “And despite propaganda to the contrary, Canadian health care really is quite excellent.”

“What’s this livelihood you mentioned?” Rafi asked.

Tidyman smiled again, showing his teeth.

“People come to me with their fondest wishes and I provide them with their heart’s desire.”

“Very poetic,” said Holliday. “If a bit enigmatic.”

“What was it Churchill said about enigmas?” Tidyman said, smiling broadly, the black eyes twinkling.

“It was a radio speech in 1939,” said Holliday. “He was talking about Russia:
It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma
. In other words, it’s complicated.”

“A historian,” added Tidyman. “Interesting.”

“I thought it was Jim Carrey who said that as the Riddler in
Batman Forever
,” said Rafi, smiling himself now.

Tidyman laughed.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Carrey, another expatriate Canadian. You can bet your bottom dollar he gets his annual checkups back in Canada.”

“What are you getting at, Mr. Tidyman?” Holliday asked.

“What I’m getting at is that my livelihood is like Churchill’s quotation: complicated.”

“And how does that involve us?”

“I suspect that your heart’s desire is complicated, too,” answered Tidyman.

“And why would you suspect that?”

“Come, come, Doctor, we’re going around in circles. We’re both being a little circumspect, feeling each other out as the saying goes, but we wouldn’t be doing even that if you were an innocent tourist, would we?” The man hooked a thumb in the direction of the maître d’. “You would have called old Omar over and had me ejected if that were the case.”

“I gather you and Omar have an understanding,” said Holliday.

“You know the word
bakshish
?” Tidyman said, his smile at full wattage.

“A bribe,” said Rafi.

“Quite so,” said Tidyman. “It is the way business is done in my country.”

“Which country would that be?” Holliday said.

“Touché, Dr. Holliday,” said the gray-haired man. “Since we are fencing again.”

“Why don’t we cut the bull twaddle and get to the point, Mr. Tidyman. Right now you’re between me, a cup of coffee and something called
Ohm Ali
that the waiter says is terrific.”

“The Egyptian version of a cherry Danish, but considerably better,” said Tidyman. “I might join you.”

“The point,” insisted Holliday.

The waiter shimmered up to the table with a little bow, summoned by some invisible clue from Tidyman. The three-way expatriate ordered something in rapid Egyptian, presumably a portion of
Ohm Ali
and a cup of coffee. The waiter nodded and slipped away.

“The point is this, Dr. Holliday,” said Tidyman, leaning over the table and keeping his voice low. “You are someone who knows his history and you certainly are not a wide-eyed tourist. I trust that you aren’t one of those bizarre Internet fanatics who thinks the lost army of Cambyses the Second actually existed and is out there somewhere wearing diamond-studded armor or the like.”

“Not guilty on both counts,” answered Holliday.

“Then there is only one other answer. You and your friend here are on some sort of mission. Add one Czech Goat, a vehicle designed for off-road uses in deserts both hot and cold, and the conclusion is inescapable. For whatever reason, you need someone to take you across the border into Libya, presumably with a certain amount of discretion. Hence my initial assertion that you needed a guide.” Tidyman sat back in his chair and stroked the chin of his beard, watching Holliday carefully.

“And if your assumption is correct?” Holliday asked. “What would we do then? You could just as easily be a policeman setting us up.”

“That would be entrapment,” said Tidyman.

“This is Egypt,” answered Holliday. “We could be in some nightmare of a prison in Cairo for ten years before the case came to court.”

“Yes, this is Egypt, where you could also be rotting away in Borg al-Arab prison for ten years because you had this in your possession,” responded Tidyman. He casually reached into the pocket of his old faded fatigue jacket and took something out. It was the palm- sized Nite Hawg automatic Holliday had taken from the hold of the tugboat.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Rafi hissed, eyes wide.

Tidyman slipped the pistol back into his pocket.

“I went through the luggage in your room while you were down here eating dinner.” He smiled broadly. “You could have been a cop just as easily as I could have.” Tidyman paused. “The point is, I didn’t turn you in, and believe me, catching a tourist with a gun would certainly have been worth my while.” He shrugged. “But I’m betting I can make a better deal with the two of you than I could with the local donut huskers.”

Dessert arrived. It was delicious, a sweet bread pudding smothered in crème fraiche, tasting richly of walnuts and cherries. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally Holliday put down his fork. He glanced over at Rafi and caught the young archaeologist’s eye. Rafi raised an expressive eyebrow and then shrugged. Holliday turned back to Emil Abdul Tidyman.

“Okay,” said Holliday at last. “Let’s talk.”

In the end they didn’t tell Tidyman anything about the gold or the involvement of the Vatican and their intelligence apparatus, Sodalitium Pianum, preferring to keep that to themselves, at least for the moment. Holliday still wasn’t sure how much the Holy See itself knew, or whether it was just the French arm of the spy organization La Sapinière that had gone rogue and was acting on its own behalf. Nor did they mention their past confrontation at West Point, and even before that while they were on the trail of the secret of the Templar sword that had once belonged to Holliday’s uncle.

“I’m still not sure we should trust him,” said Rafi later, back in their little bungalow.

“Neither am I,” said Holliday. On parting in the hotel lobby Tidyman had slipped him the automatic, which he was now loading, pressing the ten copper-tipped shells into the magazine. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t use him. I was never crazy about trying to get into Libya on our own. He’s right—we need a guide.”

“I don’t think Mr. Tidyman cares about anyone but himself. He’s what the English call a ‘main chancer.’ If he gets himself into trouble or sees the chance to make a buck, he’ll turn us over to the authorities in a minute.”

“Maybe,” said Holliday. “But if he’s making money with Siwa as his base of operations, it’s by smuggling. People and drugs most likely, maybe guns as well. If he’s the main chance type you feel he is, then he’d do pretty much anything to protect his supply routes.” Holliday shook his head. “I don’t think we have anything much to worry about on that score.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Rafi. “We won’t do Peggy much good if we’re lounging around in one of those Cairo prisons you mentioned.”

It took Tidyman a day to collect what he thought they’d need, and another day to plan the trip and spread the rumor that he was taking his two new “pigeons” on a tourist visit to Bahariya Oasis to the east, getting the requisite permits to bolster the story. It was a reasonable objective: lots of tourists who came to Siwa went to Bahariya, some for the folk music the oasis was famous for and others because it was an alternate route back to Cairo. After the crazy people who came for the total eclipse a few years before, the people of Siwa were ready to believe just about anything was possible where their foreign visitors were concerned. As long as they left some of their money in Siwa they could do anything they liked.

They drove east along an almost arrow-straight two-lane paved highway, heading directly away from Siwa and in the opposite direction from the Libyan border. Tidyman was at the wheel. Empty plastic jerry cans for water had been stored in bolt-on racks on the sides and roof that Tidyman had purchased the day before. Extra fuel was stored in the cargo compartment in the rear along with their other supplies. The three men were crowded into the bench seat up front.

Tidyman had explained their jog to the east. According to him the Siwans were an inquisitive, curious bunch and the ride toward Bahariya Oasis was a ruse for their benefit. There was also the slim chance that they would be spotted by a National Border Police overflight, although Tidyman thought it was unlikely; the light-plane pilots they used were terrified of being shot down by Libyan fighter jets and even their own air force.

After half an hour Tidyman slowed the vehicle, then reached over and dragged down a blackknobbed stick beside the shift lever.

“What’s that?” Rafi asked as there was an odd lurch. The engine note changed as well.

“Just like it says on the sign,” answered Tidyman.
“ ‘Pri vjezdu voziola do terenu zapni predni nahon’—‘
When going off-road engage four-wheel drive.’ ”

“You speak Czech?” Holliday asked, impressed.

“Just enough to drive a Goat,” their companion said and laughed. “A necessity in some of the places I’ve fought. A colleague who called himself Švejka taught me. A good soldier, Švejka.”

“What happened to him, or should I ask?” Holliday said.