Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

Two hours later Jora had managed to drag Yudel to the building’s stairway. She was about to go outside when she heard a truck halting on the pavement. Everyone who lived under the Nazis knew exactly what that meant. The whole thing was like a bad melody, beginning with a screech of brakes, followed by someone shouting orders and the dull staccato of boots on snow, which became more precise as the boots hit wooden floors. At that point you prayed for the sounds to fade away; instead there was an ominous crescendo culminating in knocks at a door. After a pause, a chorus of weeping would ensue, punctuated by machine-gun solos. And when the music was over, the lights went on again, people returned to their tables, and mothers would smile and make believe that nothing had happened next door.

Jora, who knew the tune well, hid under the stairs the moment she heard the first notes. While his colleagues broke down Rath’s door, a soldier wielding a flashlight paced nervously back and forth at the main entrance. The torch’s beam cut through the darkness, barely missing Jora’s worn grey shoe. Yudel grabbed her with such animal fear that Jora had to bite her lip in order not to cry out in pain. The soldier came so close to them that they could smell his leather coat and the cold metal and oil of the gun.

A loud shot rumbled down the stairwell. The soldier interrupted his search and rushed upstairs to his companions who were yelling. Jora lifted Yudel in her arms and went out into the street, walking slowly.

EN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF AQABA, RED SEA

Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 6:03 p.m.

The room was dominated by a large rectangular table set with twenty neatly placed folders, in front of which sat a person. Harel, Fowler and Andrea were the last ones in and had to sit in the spaces that were left. Andrea ended up between a young African-American woman dressed in some sort of paramilitary uniform and an older man, balding, with a bushy moustache. The young woman ignored her and went on talking to the companions to her left, who were dressed more or less as she was, while the man to Andrea’s right offered his hand, with its thick, coarse fingers.

‘Tommy Eichberg, driver. You must be Ms Otero.’

‘Another person who knows me! It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Eichberg smiled. He had a round, pleasant face.

‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

Andrea was about to answer but was interrupted by the loud, unpleasant sound of someone clearing his throat. An old man, well over seventy, had just entered the room. His eyes were almost buried in a nest of wrinkles, an impression that was accentuated by the tiny lenses of his glasses. His head was shaved and he had a huge greying beard that seemed to float around his mouth like a cloud of ash. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers and thick black boots. He began to speak, his voice as sharp and unpleasant as a knife scraping teeth, before he reached the head of the table where a portable electronic screen had been placed. Beside it sat Kayn’s assistant.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Cecyl Forrester and I’m Professor of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Massachusetts. It’s not the Sorbonne, but at least it’s a home.’

There was some polite laughter among the professor’s assistants, who had heard the joke a thousand times.

‘No doubt you have been trying to figure out the reason for this trip ever since you set foot on this ship. I hope you were not tempted to do so beforehand, given that your, or should I say our , contracts with Kayn Enterprises require absolute secrecy from the moment they were signed until our heirs rejoice at our death. Unfortunately the terms of my contract also require that I let you in on the secret, which I plan on doing over the course of the next hour and a half. Do not interrupt me unless you have an intelligent question. Since Mr Russell has informed me of your particulars, I am familiar with every detail, from your IQ to your favourite brand of condom. As for Mr Dekker’s crew, don’t even bother opening your mouths.’

Andrea, who was partially turned towards the professor, heard a threatening whisper from the people in uniform.

‘That son of a bitch thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Maybe I’ll make him swallow his teeth one at a time.’

‘Silence.’

The voice was soft but it had an undertone that was so violent it made Andrea shudder. She turned her head enough to see that the voice belonged to Mogens Dekker, the man with the scar, who was leaning his chair against a bulkhead. The soldiers immediately went quiet.

‘Good. Well, now that we’re all in one place,’ Cecyl Forrester went on, ‘I’d better do the introductions. The twenty-three of us have been brought together for what will be the greatest discovery of all time, and each of you is going to play a part in it. You already know Mr Russell to my right. He’s the one who selected you.’

Kayn’s assistant nodded his head in greeting.

‘To his right is Father Anthony Fowler, who will act as the Vatican’s observer on the expedition. Beside him are Nuri Zayit and Rani Peterke, cook and assistant cook. Then Robert Frick and Brian Hanley, administration. ’

The two cooks were older men. Zayit was skinny, aged around sixty, with a down-turned mouth, while his helper was heavy-set and a few years younger. Andrea couldn’t quite tell his age. The two administrators, on the other hand, were both young and almost as dark as Peterke.

‘Besides these overpaid workers, we have my idle and sycophantic assistants. They all have degrees from expensive colleges and think they know more than me: David Pappas, Gordon Durwin, Kyra Larsen, Stowe Erling and Ezra Levine.

The young archaeologists shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and tried to look professional. Andrea felt sorry for them. They must have been in their early thirties, but Forrester had them on a short leash, which made them seem even younger and more insecure than they actually were – which was the complete opposite of the people in uniform seated next to the reporter.

‘At the other end of the table we have Mr Dekker and his bulldogs: the Gottlieb twins, Alois and Alryk; Tewi Waaka, Paco Torres, Marla Jackson and Louis Maloney. They’ll be in charge of security, adding a high-calibre component to our expedition. The irony of the phrase is devastating, don’t you think?’

The soldiers didn’t react, but Dekker righted his chair and leaned across the table.

‘We’re going into the frontier zone of an Islamic country. Given the nature of our… mission, the locals could become violent. I’m sure Professor Forrester will appreciate the calibre of our defence if it comes to that.’ He spoke with a strong South African accent.

Forrester opened his mouth to respond, but something on Dekker’s face must have convinced him that now wasn’t the time for any more acid retorts.

‘Further to the right you have Andrea Otero, our official reporter. I’m asking you to cooperate with her if and when she requests any information or interviews so that she will be able to tell our story to the world.’

Andrea flashed a smile around the table, which some people returned.

‘The man with the moustache is Tommy Eichberg, our head driver. And lastly, on the right, Doc Harel, our official quack.’

‘Don’t worry if you can’t remember everyone’s name,’ said the doctor, raising her hand. ‘We’re going to spend a fair amount of time together in a place that’s not renowned for its entertainment, so we’ll get to know each other pretty well. Don’t forget to carry the ID badge the crew left in your cabins-’

‘As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter if you know everyone’s name as long as you do your job,’ the old professor interrupted. ‘Now, if you would all turn your attention to the screen, I’m going to tell you a story.’