The screen jumped around as the robot nearly tipped over.
‘Shit! Be careful, Tommy,’ David yelled.
‘Take it easy, kid. These wheels are more sensitive than a nun’s clit. Excuse the language, miss,’ Tommy said, turning to Andrea. ‘My mouth is straight out of the Bronx.’
‘Don’t worry about it. My ears are from Harlem,’ said Andrea, going along with the joke.
‘You have to stabilise the thing a little more,’ said David.
‘I’m trying!’
Eichberg turned the wheel carefully and the robot began to cross the uneven ground.
‘Any idea how much distance Freddie has covered?’ Andrea asked.
‘About eight feet from the wall,’ David replied, drying the sweat on his brow. Each minute the temperature was increasing because of the generator and the intense lighting.
‘And it has—Wait!’
‘What?’
‘I think I saw something,’ Andrea said.
‘Are you sure? It’s not easy turning this thing around.’
‘Tommy, please, go to the left.’
Eichberg looked at Pappas, who nodded. Slowly, the picture on the screen began to move, revealing a dark, roundish contour.
‘Go back a little.’
Two triangles with thin ridges appeared, one next to the other.
A row of squares grouped together.
‘A little further back. You’re too close.’
Finally, the geometry was transformed into something recognisable.
‘Oh, Lord. It’s a skull.’
Andrea looked at Pappas with satisfaction.
‘There’s your answer: that’s how they managed to seal the chamber from the inside, David.’
The archaeologist wasn’t listening. He was focused on the screen, mumbling, his hands clutching it like an insane fortune-teller looking into a crystal ball. A drop of sweat slid from his greasy nose and landed on the image of the skull where the dead person’s cheek would have been.
Just like a teardrop, thought Andrea.
‘Quickly, Tommy! Go around it and then go forward a little more,’ Pappas said. His voice sounded even more strained. ‘To the left, Tommy!’
‘Easy, kid. Let’s do this calmly. I think there’s—’
‘Let me do it,’ David said, grabbing for the controls.
‘What are you doing?’ Eichberg said angrily. ‘Fuck! Let go.’
Pappas and Eichberg struggled over the controls for a few seconds, knocking the wheel in the process. David’s face was a vivid red and Eichberg was breathing heavily.
‘Be careful!’ Andrea yelled as she stared at the screen. The image was lurching around madly.
Suddenly it stopped moving. Eichberg let go of the controls and David fell back, cutting himself on the temple as he hit the corner of the monitor. But at that moment he was more concerned with what he’d just seen than with the cut on his head.
‘That’s what I was trying to tell you, kid,’ Eichberg said. ‘The ground is uneven.’
‘Shit. Why didn’t you let go?’ David yelled. ‘The machine’s tipped over.’
‘Just shut up,’ Eichberg yelled back. ‘You’re the one rushing things.’
Andrea screamed for both of them to be quiet.
‘Stop arguing! It hasn’t fallen over completely. Take a look.’ She was pointing at the screen.
Still angry, the two men approached the monitor. Brian Hanley, who had gone outside to get some tools and had been abseiling down during the brief fight, drew closer as well.
‘I think we can fix that,’ he said, studying the situation. ‘If we all pull on the cable at the same time we can probably get the robot back on its treads. If we pull on it too gently all we’ll do is drag it and it’ll get stuck.’
‘That won’t work,’ Pappas said. ‘We’ll yank the cable off.’
‘We’ve nothing to lose by trying, right?’
They lined up, each one holding the cable with both hands, as close as possible to the opening. Hanley pulled the cable taut.
‘On my count pull hard. One, two, three!’
The four of them yanked the cable at the same time. Suddenly it felt too loose in their hands.
‘Shit. We’ve disconnected it.’
Hanley continued pulling on the cable until the end appeared.
‘You’re right. Shit! I’m sorry, Pappas . . .’
The young archaeologist turned away, exasperated, ready to pound whoever or whatever was in front of him. He lifted a wrench and was about to hit the monitor, maybe in retaliation for the cut he’d received two minutes before.
But Andrea came closer and then she understood.
No.
I can’t believe it.
Because I never really believed in it, did I? I never thought it was possible you could exist.
The transmission from the robot had remained on the screen. When they had pulled on the cable Freddie had righted himself before the cable had become disconnected. In another position without the skull blocking the way, the image on screen showed a flash of something that Andrea could not understand at first. Then she realised that it was the infrared beam reflecting off a metallic surface. The reporter thought she could see the irregular edge of what appeared to be a huge box. On top of it she thought she saw a figure but she couldn’t be sure.
The person who was sure was Pappas, who was gazing at it, hypnotised.
‘It’s there, Professor. I’ve found it. I’ve found it for you . . .’
Andrea turned towards the professor and took a photo without thinking. She was trying to get his first reaction, whatever it was - surprise, joy, the culmination of his long search and dedication and emotional isolation. She took three shots before she really looked at the old man.
There was no expression in his eyes and from his mouth there was only a bloody trickle that ran down into his beard.
Brian ran over to him.
‘Shit! We have to get him out of here. He’s not breathing.’
67
LOWER EAST SIDE
NEW YORK
December 1943
Yudel was so hungry he could hardly feel the rest of his body. He was aware only of dragging himself through Manhattan’s streets looking for shelter in the doorways and alleys, never staying long in one place. There was always a sound, a light or a voice that frightened him and he would run, clutching the ragged change of clothes that was the only thing he owned. Except for his stay in Istanbul, the only homes he’d known were the hideout he’d lived in with his family, and the hold of the ship. For the boy, the chaos, noise and bright lights of New York were all part of a frightening jungle that was filled with danger. He drank from public fountains. At one point a drunken beggar grabbed the boy’s leg as he passed. Later, a policeman called to him from a corner. His uniform reminded Yudel of the monster with the flashlight who had searched for them while they hid under the stairs at Judge Rath’s house. He ran to hide.
The sun was setting on the afternoon of his third day in New York when the exhausted boy collapsed in a pile of rubbish in a dirty alleyway near Broome Street. Above him, the tenements were filled with the sound of pots and pans, arguments, sexual encounters, life. Yudel must have passed out for a few moments. When he came to, something was crawling over his face. He knew what it was before he opened his eyes. The rat paid him no attention. It was headed for an overturned bin, where it had scented a piece of dry bread. It was a large piece, too big to carry off, so the rat gnawed at it voraciously.
Yudel crawled over to the bin and grabbed a can, his fingers shaking from hunger. He hurled it at the rat and missed. The rat looked up at him briefly and then went back to gnawing the bread. The boy grabbed a broken umbrella handle and shook it at the rat, which finally ran off in search of an easier way to satisfy its hunger.
The boy grabbed the piece of stale bread. He opened his mouth hungrily, but then immediately closed it and put the bread on his lap. He pulled out a filthy rag from his bundle, covered hi
s head and blessed the Lord for the gift of the bread.
‘Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheynu Melech ha-olam, ha motzee lechem min ha-aretz.’9
In the alley, a door had opened a moment before. An old rabbi, unnoticed by Yudel, had witnessed the boy battling the rat. When he heard the blessing of the bread from the lips of the starving child, a tear rolled down his cheek. He had never seen anything like it. There was no desperation or doubt in that faith.
The rabbi continued to look at the child for a long while. His synagogue was very poor and he could barely find enough money to keep it open. For that reason even he did not understand his decision.
After eating the bread Yudel instantly fell asleep among the rotting detritus. He didn’t wake up until he felt the rabbi carefully lift him up and carry him inside the synagogue.
The old stove will keep the cold out for a few more nights. Then we’ll see, thought the rabbi.
As he removed the dirty clothing from the boy and covered him with his only blanket, the rabbi found the blue-green card the officers had given Yudel on Ellis Island. On the card the boy was identified as Raymond Kayn, with family in Manhattan. He also found the envelope, on which was written in Hebrew:
For my son, Yudel Cohen
Not to be read until your bar mitzvah in November 1951
The rabbi opened the envelope, hoping that it would give him a clue to the boy’s identity. What he read left him shocked and confused, but it reaffirmed his conviction that the Almighty had guided the boy’s footsteps to his door.
Outside, the snow began to fall heavily.
68
Josef Cohen’s Letter to His Son, Yudel
Vienna,
Tuesday, 9 February 1943
Dear Yudel,
I write these hurried lines in the hope that the affection and love that we feel for you will fill some of the emptiness left by the urgency and inexperience of your correspondent. I have never been one to show much emotion, your mother knows this very well. Ever since you were born, the enforced intimacy of the space in which we have been imprisoned has eaten away at my heart. It saddens me that I have never seen you play in the sun, and never will. The Eternal One has forged us in the crucible of a trial that has proved too difficult for us to bear. It is up to you to carry out what we have not been able to accomplish.
In a few minutes we will go in search of your brother and we will not return. Your mother won’t listen to reason and I cannot allow her to go out there alone. I am aware that I am walking towards a certain death. When you read this letter you will be thirteen years old. You will ask yourself what madness drove your parents to walk straight into the arms of the enemy. Part of the purpose of this letter is so that I myself can understand the answer to that question. When you grow up you will know that there are some things we must do even though we know that the results may go against us.
Time is running out but I must tell you something very important. For centuries the members of our family have been custodians of a sacred object. It is the candle that was present when you were born. Through an unfortunate set of circumstances, it is now the only thing we own of any value, and that is why your mother is forcing me to risk it in order to rescue your brother. It will be as pointless a sacrifice as that of our own lives. But I don’t mind. I would not do it if you did not remain behind. I trust in you. I would like to explain to you why this candle is so important, but the truth is I do not know. I only know that it was my mission to keep it safe, a mission that has been passed from father to son for generations, and a mission in which I have failed, as I have failed in so many aspects in my life.
Find the candle, Yudel. We’re going to give it to the doctor who is holding your brother at the Am Spiegelgrund Children’s Hospital. If it at least serves to purchase your brother’s freedom, then you can search for it together. If not, I pray to the Almighty to keep you safe, and that by the time you read this the war will finally be over.
There is something else. Very little is left of the large inheritance that was destined for you and Elan. The factories that belonged to our family are in Nazi hands. The bank accounts that we had in Austria have also been confiscated. Our apartments were burned during Kristallnacht. But luckily we can leave you something. We have always kept a family fund for emergencies in a bank in Switzerland. We have added to it little by little, making trips every two or three months, even if what we were bringing only amounted to a few hundred Swiss francs. Your mother and I enjoyed our little trips and would often stay there for the weekend. It’s not a fortune, about fifty thousand marks, but it will help with your education and getting started wherever you are. The money is deposited in a numbered account at Credit Suisse, Number 336923348927R, under my name. The bank manager will ask for the password. It is ‘Perpignan’.
That’s it. Say your prayers every day and do not abandon the light of the Torah. Always honour your home and your people.
Blessed be the Eternal One, He who is our only God, Universal Presence, True Judge. He commands me and I command you. May He keep you safe!
Your father,
Josef Cohen
69
HUQAN
He had spent so long holding back that when they finally found it, the only thing he felt was fear. Then the fear turned into relief, relief at being able to rid himself at last of that horrible mask.
It would be the next day, in the morning. They would all be in the dining tent for breakfast. Nobody would suspect a thing.
Ten minutes ago, he had crawled under the mess tent’s platform and planted it. It was a simple device but very powerful, perfectly camouflaged. They would be above it, unawares. A minute later they would be explaining themselves to Allah.
He wasn’t sure if he should give the signal after the explosion. The brothers would come and crush the arrogant little soldiers. The ones who had survived, of course.
He decided to wait a few more hours. He’d give them time to finish their work. No options and no way out.
Remember the bushmen, he thought. The monkey had found the water, but it hadn’t yet retrieved it . . .
70
KAYN TOWER
NEW YORK
Wednesday, 19 July 2006. 11.22 p.m.
‘You too, pal,’ said the thin blond plumber. ‘It’s all the same to me. I get paid whether I work or not.’
‘Amen to that,’ agreed the fat plumber with the ponytail. The orange uniform fit him so tightly that from behind it looked as if it was going to burst.
‘Maybe it’s better this way,’ said the guard, agreeing with them. ‘You come back tomorrow and that’s it. Don’t complicate my fucking life. I have two men out sick and I can’t assign anyone to babysit the two of you. Those are the rules: without a babysitter no outside personnel after eight p.m.’
‘You don’t know how grateful we are,’ said the blond one. ‘With a bit of luck the next shift will have to take care of the problem. I don’t feel like fixing busted pipes.’
‘What? Wait, wait,’ said the guard. ‘What are you talking about, busted pipes?’
‘Just that. They’re busted. The same thing happened at Saatchi and Saatchi. Who dealt with that one, Bennie?’
‘I think it was Louie Pigtails,’ said the fat one.
‘Great guy, Louie. God bless him.’
‘Amen to that. Well, see you later, Sarge. Have a good night.’
‘Should we go to Spinato’s, buddy?’
‘Do bears shit in the woods?’
The two plumbers picked up their gear and headed towards the exit.
‘Wait,’ the guard said, getting more anxious with each minute. ‘What happened to Louie Pigtails?’
‘You know, he had an emergency like this one. One night he couldn’t get into the building because of an alarm or something. Anyway, the pressure built up in the drain pipes and they started bursting and, you know, there was shit all over the fucking place.’
‘Yeah . . . like fucking Vietnam.’
‘Dude, you
never set foot in Vietnam, right? My father was there.’
‘Your father spent the seventies stoned.’
‘The thing is that Louie Pigtails is now Bald Louie. Think about what a fucked-up scene that was. What I’m hoping is that there’s nothing too valuable up there, because by tomorrow everything’s gonna be shit brown.’
The guard looked again at the central monitor in the lobby. The emergency lights in room 328E were flashing insistently with a yellow light, which meant there was a problem with the water or gas pipes. The building was so smart it could tell you when your shoes were untied.
He checked the directory to verify the location of 328E. When he realised where it was, he went pale.
‘Fuck, it’s the principal board room on the thirty-eighth floor.’
‘Bad deal, huh, buddy?’ said the fat plumber. ‘I’m sure it’s full of leather furniture and Van Gongs.’
‘Van Gongs? What the fuck! You ain’t got no culture at all. It’s Van Gogh. Gogh. You know.’
‘I know who he is. The Italian painter.’
‘Van Gogh was a German and you’re a jerk. Let’s split and go to Spinato’s before they close. I’m starving over here.’
The guard, who was an art lover, didn’t bother maintaining that Van Gogh was actually Dutch because at that moment he remembered that there really was a Cézanne hanging in the board room.
‘Guys, wait a minute,’ he said, coming out from behind the reception desk and running after the plumbers. ‘Let’s talk about this . . .’
Orville flopped down in the president’s chair in the board room, a chair that the owner hardly ever used. He thought he might take a nap there, surrounded by all the mahogany panelling. Once he’d recovered from the adrenalin of acting in front of the building guard, the tiredness and the pain in his hands washed over him again.
‘Fuck, I thought he’d never leave.’
‘You did a great job convincing the guy, Orville. Congratulations,’ Albert said, pulling out the top level of his tool box from which he extracted a laptop computer.