THAT VERY MORNING, Gregory Evans let himself be carried away by his spirit of adventure, penetrating the heart of old Cairo. The ineffable charm of the past hung like a mystery over the streets festered with poverty, where an amalgam of acrid smells coalesced into a single, unique, and indescribable essence, a seductive aroma that came from everywhere and enveloped everyone with its thick sweetness, a captivating fragrance involving hashish vendors, the traders of perfumed ogres, the street vendors selling medicinal plants, the fruity tobacco smoke from shishas, the henna of women's hair, and the ammonia of those who shamelessly urinated on the less-trafficked corners of the Al Ghourieh neighborhood. Peeped at by the oblique glances of the women who peered through the windows of their houses, the detective arrived at Al Hakim Bi Amr Illah Street submerged in a feeling that was a mixture of dread and serenity and that intoxicated him to the point of making him feel like the happiest creature on the face of the Earth.
Something in him was changing. His spirit had shed the protection of his conscience and now shone through, internally defeated, in the mirror of his excesses and defects. There was no turning back from the initiatory path he had undertaken.
Without realizing it, he arrived at the Al Fishawi café, also known as Os Espelhos, famous for being a must-see for travelers who wanted to immerse themselves in the dark world of Cairo's misery.
He sat down at one of the tables along the narrow alley. A young man wearing a turban and purple galabiya approached to offer him an aged brass kettle before he changed his mind and left, seeking a more sophisticated and elegant place. He thanked him, and the young man nodded repeatedly, smiling with a certain satisfaction.
Inside the café, a few elderly men took turns smoking a long-tentacled shisha pipe, watching expectantly for the arrival of new buses carrying tourists who would bring benefits to their destitute economy. Indeed, as soon as they descended the steps of the bus, they were approached by various street vendors, beggars, and shoe-shine boys, willing to offer their services and prayers in exchange for alms.
Those who managed to escape the harassment of the most disadvantaged were subjugated by the magnificent products of the artisans — true works of art manufactured in gold, silk, glass, wood, copper and ivory.
And it was while observing the various types of shops lining the Khan Al Khalili market that Evans spotted, at the far end of that shopping center, the figure of Balkis, discussing with a vendor the price of some small stone obelisks. These were one of the most sought-after souvenirs among Europeans, alongside traditional papyri and golden hieroglyphic inscriptions. She turned, driven by a sudden intuition.
She raised her hand in greeting. Gregory politely mirrored her gesture, feeling a strange tingling in his stomach. Finally, Balkis gave in to the merchant's arguments, handing him the stipulated amount. He took an obelisk in each hand and, after receiving the change, approached the Spaniard. He sat down beside him, leaving both monoliths on the table.
— I hope my presence doesn't bother you — he said, smiling.
— Actually, I didn't expect to see her again until the afternoon — the detective admitted. — Although I admit it was a pleasant surprise and, at the same time, a relief to see that someone who speaks to God is capable of haggling over the price of an object with a simple merchant. It's a detail that makes her more human. —
The Widow burst out laughing.
— I see you have a sense of humor, and that's something not everyone has these days.
— At least I try — the detective observed, with a certain charm. — However, it's hard to hold your own when you find out your girlfriend is a member of a Masonic society that goes around murdering people.
Balkis remained eloquently silent. A carpet seller approached them, hoping to earn a few Egyptian pounds. Gregory declined the offer with a raised hand, and the man walked away, heading to another table where three individuals of Anglo-Saxon descent were chatting amicably.
— The master made a mistake and it is only for God to judge him — said the old woman.
— Tell me... what is the reason for your visit? — Gregory asked, diverting the conversation. — I suppose your meeting me is no coincidence.
Balkis liked that young man. He knew from experience that he wasn't one to fool people. And despite his natural vanity, he was an intelligent man. He understood the importance of guarding the temples' secrets.
— Less than an hour ago, Hiram received a group of archaeologists who wanted to gain access to the pyramid of Cheops
— I said to him, waiting to see what his reaction would be.
— And then...?
He was completely unaware of what she wanted to tell him.
— One of them is Professor Said Cohen, an archaeologist obsessed with Egyptian mysteries who works for National Geographic.
He was accompanied by Dr. Sala and a young woman we all know as Sephy.
At that moment, he understood the gravity of the problem. If they were there, it was because they had followed him from Spain, intent on finding him.
— And the lawyer? — he asked. Balkis shrugged.
— That's irrelevant. What really matters is finding out why they came here. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion they intend to seize the Throne of God.
The detective didn't share the same opinion, at least regarding Antonia. As for Sephy, he still had his doubts.
— That young German woman, who, according to you, is responsible for the murders of Jorge and Giovanna... why would she risk coming, if she has already accomplished her task?
For a moment, he thought her mission was precisely to finish him off — and that would be a correct idea if, as he believed, Monroe's orders consisted of silencing the voices of those who were privy to the secret.
— Perhaps because he correctly interpreted the mason's manuscript.
— That means you read it.
— Much worse, I fear — the woman admitted. — In reality, she never actually destroyed it.
— You mean to say that the Toledo manuscript was, all along, in the possession of a murderess...? — he asked, astonished, and then exclaimed with profound irony, — ...perfect!
Balkis was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the Spaniard's change of mood. He had no choice but to try to excuse his master's lack of caution, and he did so by diverting his attention elsewhere.
— Let's talk about you — he said harshly. — Do you think you're ready to face the Great Architect of the Universe?
Evans couldn't help but let out a disbelieving chuckle. He still couldn't accept the fact that he could speak to God. It was something inadmissible, beyond the reach of living beings — if it even existed.
— I'm sorry — he apologized for his attitude. — It's just that your words confirm my first thought: you're all crazy.
— Donum Dei is not madness, but rather a dream that can be realized by those who wish to delve deeper into the truth — he challenged, with more energy. — It is the Grace of God offered to those who forget who they are. I've already done it: I left my family and changed my name. No doubt, I'm wasting my time talking to you, but if I insist, it's because what we call conscience still unites us. The truth is that social life, for a Guardian, is a step backward in knowledge, something like a professor having to study in a classroom of preschoolers.
— Does this mean that humanity is idiotic?
— I'd say blind — she replied carefully. — Listen... what would you say if I asked you what you see in these obelisks I just bought?
— If I were a psychologist, I'd tell you they represent man's phallic power — he joked. — But since I studied library science, I think they're excellent for supporting books.
The old woman didn't seem amused by Gregory's joke. Instead, she looked at him with a stern, somewhat solemn expression.
— Do you have something to do now? — he asked him, forgetting the sarcasm of that pedant who would soon become a Guardian of the Ark.
— I was thinking about doing tourism, although I'm open to any proposal.
— I need you to accompany me to the Giza Plateau, but I ask that you remain silent until we arrive.
— I give you my word.
— Okay... — Balkis stood up, gripping the obelisks firmly. — Let's take a taxi to Ramses II Square.
The detective left a couple of Egyptian pounds next to the kettle. He followed the lady's footsteps.
AT THE TABLE NEXT DOOR, the three tourists, who had been approached by the carpet seller a short while earlier, abandoned their chairs to follow them closely.