T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

By the time they turned off the highway onto the road for Wadi Natrum, the sunlight was so fierce it was impossible to see any horizon. Brilliant sand weaved and melted into hazy hostility with the sky. They drove another hour and entered the valley approaching the wadi, or oasis. The cavern walls held none of the smooth-flowing grace of ancient waterways. Here tides of fierce winds had etched away the softer earth, leaving strange rounded shapes and alien markings in a hundred shades, all of them yellow. They descended deeper into the valley, where the rising wind no longer touched them, only the heat and the light.

Gradually the cavern walls lessened and they rejoined the flat blanched desert. Soon after they entered the village of Natrum. They were slowed to the pace of the donkey cart up ahead. An Egyptian passed on his bicycle, wide-splayed feet pedaling furiously and leather sandals flapping like castanets. His daughter perched on the handlebars, all bright eyes and soft blue shawl. The buildings were baked to colorless unity, even the signs painted mostly with dust. The sky held no color, the earth no shade. Wynn sat in his air-conditioned car, insulated from the world, yet sweating from the furnace raging beyond his window.

They drove a further hour beyond the village, along a road so sand-blanketed only the occasional sign suggested there was any path at all. One moment there was nothing but heat and a track turned white by reflected light, the next, a wall appeared to their right.

Nabil said quietly, “We are here.”

The wall surrounding the monastery was a mile to a side, high and stained a muted ocher by the dust of centuries. The broad wooden gates and the shutters around the sentry post were faded yellow with time and heat. So very much of both.

Within the outer wall, the desert was not vanquished, merely softened. Low buildings fronted carefully tended gardens of cactus and palm and hardy plants. The tallest dovecotes Wynn had ever seen rose like guard towers and marched two abreast along the outer wall. They drove on to where a second wall rose, higher than the first. Two modern buildings flanked the wall, fronted by a dusty courtyard filled with cars and people in severe modern dress.

Wynn rose from the car and watched as Kay Trilling marched resolutely over and began greeting the gathered throng. He looked across the car to where Sybel squinted into the sun and wind. “What should I do?”

“I wish I knew what to tell you.”

“That’s it? You bring me out here and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Kay has come here to convince the representatives of nineteen different national governments that we remain committed to making this happen. That without Graham at the helm, we can still make it work.” She did not sound as though she believed it herself.

Wynn spotted a familiar figure in a black cassock. “Is that Father Libretto?”

“I told you. Sant’Egidio is the group that helped organize this meeting.”

“So they’re in charge.”

“No, Wynn.” Explaining adult things to an exasperating child. “This is a council of equals. Sant’Egidio has played the role of messenger.”

He realized that Nabil still stood by his door, watching with the stone features of a human sphinx. “You’ve got something to say?”

“This is important work, Congressman.” The Egyptian hesitated, then added, “Your father would call this the kind of work that makes God smile.”

The words struck Wynn like a fist to his heart. He waited until the Egyptian had walked over to join the others, then said to Sybel, “What about Grant’s threat to destroy me if I don’t do what they want? And don’t tell me he hasn’t got the goods because he does. Line and verse. He could send us both to prison, and I could lose everything.”

“What if I took care of Grant?”

He understood instantly what she was saying. “You’d do that? Go back to him?”

“I haven’t left him yet. But you heard Nabil. This work is vital.”

“Tell me why.” When Sybel responded by glancing over to where the crowd was moving inside the conference hall, Wynn pressed, “Two minutes. You can spare me that much.”

“Eighteen funds are now larger than all but six national economies. Two are larger than Italy’s GDP. Of America’s top ten banks, eight derive more than half their total profits from derivatives and currency transactions. Their power to make or break economic recoveries and governments is a constant threat. They not only make profit from instability, they want it to continue . They respected no nation, no law, nothing except profit. National sovereignty and control of finances is at risk.”

As though to emphasize her words, the wind chose that moment to attack. A giant’s fistful of grit was flung into Wynn’s face. The dreaded khamsin dominated that time of year, a blistering breath from the southern deserts that blew so hard and long it deposited tons of ocher and gold high up in the Alps, two thousand miles to the north.

Sybel tightened down her face to where not even the wind could penetrate. “During the first economic boom of the twentieth century, the robber barons had to be reined in through governmental control and their monopolies broken. Now there’s a different threat, one that knows no borders. To harness the globalized power, global laws are needed. Hutchings’ plan was to levy a very small tax on every international currency transaction, one-tenth of one percent. Not enough to harm any business making currency purchases for normal trade in goods and services, but enough to slow the tidal surges of speculation. Funds generated from this tax wouldn’t go to any country’s treasury. Instead, a world body would be formed. Perhaps a revamped World Bank, perhaps something entirely new. They’d use these funds to pay off all outstanding debts of the developing nations, starting with the poorest first.”

She stopped and waited. Wynn knew she sought what he was unwilling to give, a commitment as total as her own. “I’ll think about it.”

Sybel whirled about. “Sure. You do that.”

“You can’t expect me-”

“I’ve already told you, Wynn. I don’t expect anything.”

Wynn sat in the corner of the conference hall by the exit. He sought to concentrate on Kay Trilling’s address, but felt barred from understanding as well as admission. Sybel sat far enough away for him to observe her tragic resignation. He had years of experience disappointing Sybel, yet the act never came easy. When she took the coffee break as an excuse to leave the building, he followed her. As they crossed the parking area, Wynn half expected to be told to disappear. He took her silence as the only welcome he deserved, and followed her towards the monastery’s fortresslike walls.

Wynn slipped through the narrow gate behind Sybel and entered an interior square. The wind was muted here, kept at bay by the thick high walls. Eucalyptus trees perfumed the air. Together they crossed the square and started down a broad lane, shaded by a wooden lattice woven in geometric design. They passed several monks in their long black robes and strange embroidered caps. Most did not appear to notice them at all.

They turned a corner and found themselves at the entrance to a chapel. Wynn followed her example, slipped off his shoes, and stepped inside. The church was composed of three interconnected rooms, with perhaps two dozen penitents scattered throughout. There were no seats, of course. But the reed mats were cool against his feet and gave way to thick Persian carpets up by the altars. Sybel approached the front, stood there a moment, then abruptly spun about and departed.

Wynn found her standing outside, slipping on her shoes and blinking against the transition from interior cool to desert light. He asked, “Are you all right?”