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

‘I don’t see what’s so funny.’

‘You’ve gone whiter than my Aunt Bonnie’s butt. That’s what’s so funny.’

‘Don’t pay any attention to him, honey,’ Tommy broke in. ‘We’ll use the mini-excavator. It’ll take us ten minutes.’

‘You always spoil the fun, Tommy. You should have let her sweat a little more.’ Frick shook his head as he went off to find someone else to bother.

He was fourteen when he began to learn.

Of course he first had a great deal to forget.

To start with, everything he had learned at school, from his friends, in his home. Nothing was real. Everything was a lie invented by the enemy, the oppressors of Islam. They had a plan, the imam had told him, whispering it in his ear. ‘They start by giving women their freedom. They place them on the same level as men to weaken us. They know that we’re stronger, more capable. They know that we are more serious in our commitment to God. Then they brainwash us, they take over the minds of holy imams. They try to cloud our judgement with impure images of lust and corruption. They promote homosexuality. They lie, lie, lie. They even lie about the dates. They say it’s the twenty-second of May. But you know what day it is today.’

‘The sixteenth day of shawwal , master.’

‘They talk about integration, about getting along with others. But you know what God wants.’

‘No, I don’t know, master,’ said the frightened boy. How could he be inside God’s mind?

‘God wants to avenge the Crusades; the crusades that took place a thousand years ago and those of today. God wants us to re-establish the Caliphate, which they destroyed in 1924. From that day on, the Muslim community has been broken up into parcels of territory that are controlled by our enemies. You only have to read a newspaper to see how our Muslim brothers live in a state of oppression, humiliation and genocide. And the greatest affront is the stake driven into the heart of Dar al-Islam: Israel.’

‘I hate the Jews, master.’

‘No. You only think you do. Listen carefully to my words. This hatred you believe you feel now, in a few years’ time it will seem to have been no more than a tiny spark compared to the conflagration of an entire forest. Only true believers are capable of such a transformation. And you will be one of them. You are special. I have only to look into your eyes to see you have the power to change the world. To unify the Muslim community. To bring sharia to Amman, Cairo, Beirut. And then to Berlin. To Madrid. To Washington.’

‘How will we do it, master? How can we bring Islamic Law to the entire world?’

‘You’re not ready for the answer.’

‘Yes, I am, master.’

‘Do you want to learn, with all your heart and soul and mind?’

‘There is nothing I want more than to carry out the word of God.’

‘No, not yet. But soon…’

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 8:27 p.m.

The tents were finally up, the toilets and showers had been installed, the pipes were connected to the water tank and the expedition’s civilian personnel was resting inside the small square created by the surrounding tents. Andrea, seated on the ground with a bottle of Gatorade in her hand, had given up trying to find Father Fowler. Neither he nor Dr Harel seemed to be around, so she devoted herself to contemplating the cloth and aluminium structures, which were unlike anything she had ever seen. Each tent comprised an elongated cube with a door and plastic windows. There was a wooden platform that sat about a foot and a half above the ground on a dozen concrete blocks to insulate the inhabitants against the burning heat of the sand. The roof was made of a large curve of cloth that was fastened to the ground on one side in order to improve the refraction of the sun’s rays. Each tent had its own electric cable that led to a central generator next to the fuel truck.

Of the six tents, three were slightly different. One was the infirmary, which had a rougher design but was hermetically sealed. Another formed the combined kitchen and mess tent. It had air-conditioning so that expedition members could relax there during the hottest hours of the day. The last tent was Kayn’s and was slightly removed from the rest. It had no visible windows and was roped off – a silent warning that the billionaire did not wish to be disturbed. Kayn had stayed inside his H3, driven by Dekker, until they had finished putting up his tent and he had yet to reappear.

I doubt he’ll emerge for the rest of the expedition. I wonder if his tent has a built-in toilet , thought Andrea, taking an absentminded sip from her bottle. Here comes someone who might know the answer.

‘Hello, Mr Russell.’

‘How are you?’ said the assistant, smiling politely.

‘Very well, thank you. Listen, about this interview with Mr Kayn-’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible yet,’ Russell cut in.

‘I hope you haven’t brought me out here just to sightsee. I want you to know that-’

‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ the disagreeable voice of Professor Forrester interrupted the reporter’s complaints. ‘Against our predictions, you’ve managed to install all of the tents on time. Congratulations. Give yourself a big hand.’

His tone was as insincere as the faint applause that followed. The professor always left his listeners feeling slightly uncomfortable, if not humiliated, but the members of the expedition managed to remain seated around him as the sun began to set behind the cliffs.

‘Before we get on with supper and the assignment of tents, I want to finish the story,’ the archaeologist went on. ‘Remember that I told you a chosen few had taken the treasure out of the city of Jerusalem? Well, this group of brave-’

‘One question keeps running through my head,’ Andrea cut in, ignoring the old man’s piercing look. ‘You said that YirmƏyáhu was the author of the Second Scroll. That he wrote it before the Romans razed Solomon’s temple. Am I mistaken?’

‘No, you’re not wrong.’

‘Did he leave any other writings?’

‘No, he did not.’

‘Did the men who took the Ark out of Jerusalem leave any?’

‘No.’

‘Then how do you know what happened? Those men carried a very heavy object covered in gold for, what, almost two hundred miles? All I did was climb that dune carrying my camera and a water bottle, and it was-’

The old man had grown redder with each of Andrea’s words until the contrast between his bald head and beard made his face look like a cherry resting on a wad of cotton.

‘How did the Egyptians manage to build the Pyramids? How did the natives of Easter Island erect their ten-thousand-ton statues? How did the Nabateans carve the city of Petra out of these same rocks?’

He spat each word out at Andrea, leaning over her as he talked until his face was next to hers. The reporter turned away to avoid his rancid breath.

‘With faith. You need faith to cover one hundred and eighty-five miles under a scorching sun and on rough terrain. You need faith to believe you can do it.’

‘So other than the Second Scroll, you don’t have any proof,’ Andrea said, unable to stop herself.

‘No, I do not. But I have a theory, and let’s hope I’m right, Ms Otero, or we’re going home empty-handed.’

The reporter was about to reply, but felt a slight elbowing in her ribs. She turned to see Father Fowler staring at her in warning.

‘Where have you been, Father?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere. We have to talk.’