Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

As they turned a corner they came face to face with an English policeman. The man stared in amazement at their wigs and costumes. Munk touched his riding crop to his cap.

As you were, officer, we're quite capable of finding our way. This is the Chief Justice of the Sudan and I'm his aide-de-camp, seconded here by the late Emperor Francis Joseph in accordance with security arrangements for the Holy Land. We're out on an early morning pilgrimage to see some of the sights before the crowds gather.

Sah, barked the policeman, stepping back and saluting. Cairo nodded pleasantly, Munk smiled, they strolled on.

You know, said Cairo, the night was worth it if for no other reason than to ruin that Frenchman.

A detestable wretch, I've never cared for him. But you mean he's UIA as well?

Yes. He was recruited by Nubar's Dead Sea Control about a month ago. I have a dealer who sells down there and keeps me informed.

Munk nodded.

It must cost Nubar a great deal to be always sending players into the game to lose his money. You'd think he'd be tired of it by now. Rather desperate, that little Albanian.

Mad is more like it, said Cairo. But no matter. We won't have to put up with him forever.

What's he got?

Syphilis, acquired through the anus about ten years ago. And they tell me it's moving into the tertiary stage.

Who tells you that, Cairo?

The UIA people who inform on him to my dealers, in exchange for a discount. Still, that's not his most serious problem. The other thing will probably get him first. Apparently little Nubar Wallenstein is a hopeless mercury addict.

Munk smiled.

In certain esoteric areas your knowledge is astonishing. What in the world are the symptoms of mercury addiction?

In his case, said Cairo, severe megalomania compounded by hallucinations. Self-starvation will set in at some point. It's an uncommon way to go these days. In fact there haven't really been any European mercury addicts around since the sixteenth century, when a fairly large number turned up among the alchemists. Before that it occurred among the Arab alchemists in the twelfth century. In other words, not an everyday matter.

Munk smiled again.

I see. Speaking of the twelfth century, have you noticed anything strange about the cognac bottles Joe puts his poteen in?

Only that they're hand-blown and old and have dates on the labels in Latin. As I recall the bottle he had with him tonight said A.D. 1122. Why?

Because there's also that mark on all the labels, a white cross on a black background, the arms of the cross shaped like arrowheads with their points not quite touching at the center. Are you familiar with that cross?

No.

Well, said Munk, it was the insignia of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, more commonly known as the Knights Hospitalers because they were founded here after the First Crusade to run a hospital for Christian pilgrims. But they soon grew into the most powerful of all the orders and dominated the Mediterranean for centuries. Their loot was enormous.

And so?

And so how does Joe happen to have cognac bottles with their cross on them?

Cairo suddenly smiled, knowing exactly what it meant. After all, he had extensive experience himself with secret caches of history.

You say the Knights once ran a hospital in Jerusalem?

Merely a sideline, answered Munk, an excuse for getting started. Very soon they were marauders and wealthy oppressors.

The pharaohs were also wealthy oppressors, said Cairo. And they weren't just knights pretending to fight for some god. They were gods.

So?

So now they're just so much mummy dust available in any bazaar in the Middle East. At a high price to be sure, but still available to anyone who can raise the money for a snort.

You're talking about your own game, said Munk.

No, about Joe's bottles. Wouldn't it be reasonable for a hospital to have medicinal cognac on hand?

Cairo smiled more broadly. Munk stopped and stared at him.

You're saying you think the bottles are genuine?

Yes.

Imported into the Holy Land by the Knights Hospitalers early in the twelfth century?

Strictly for medicinal purposes, answered Cairo, laughing.

Munk took out his watch and clicked open the face that showed no time. For a moment he gazed at it.

Then you're also saying Joe has discovered a hidden wine cellar that once belonged to the Knights?

But where?

Cairo raised his patent-leather slipper and gently tapped the cobblestones where they were walking.

Down there? Somewhere beneath the city?

Very far beneath it, I would think. Jerusalem has come and gone several times since then and they've always rebuilt the city over the ruins.

Munk stopped and gazed down at the cobblestones.

Caverns of the past? But how could he have found a way into them? If they were known to exist people would have been looking for them for centuries.

Perhaps there was only one man who knew they existed and Joe learned the secret from him. A man no one else has ever believed or even listened to.

Munk put his watch away. They walked on in silence for a time.

Obviously Haj Harun, said Munk.

It seems likely.

But he's mad.

Of course.

He even claims he's lived three thousand years.

Which is why no one listens to him. But tell me, Munk, would you be interested in the caverns if that's what they are?

Not really. Futures are my specialty, as you know.

Yes, a new Jewish homeland. I know.

And what about you? asked Munk.

Not my line either. In my own way I'm looking to the future too.

For what?

Justice, said Cairo with a smile. He removed a small gold container from under his robe and extracted a pinch of dust. He sniffed and the pupils of his clear blue eyes dilated. The muscles around his mouth relaxed in a familiar manner. The two of them had emerged from an alley near Jaffa Gate.

It's quite extraordinary the effect mummy dust has on you, Munk commented dryly.

Cairo smiled into the distance and nodded gently as they separated to go their different ways.

— 9-

Nubar Wallenstein

Nothing less than a vast criminal organization operating throughout the Balkans, its scheming employees chosen by Nubar solely for their abilities in intrigue and intimidation, burglary and embezzlement.

In the tower room of the Albanian castle where his grandfather had memorized Bibles early in the nineteenth century, Nubar Wallenstein sat brooding over a report that suggested the possible existence of yet another obscure treatise written by the most renowned alchemist in history, Bombastus von Hohenheim, more often remembered as Paracelsus.

Nubar's library contained all the works commonly attributed to the great sixteenth-century Swiss master, and in addition thousands of smudged pages that were either forged or illegible. Acquired over the last six years, the collection represented an immense effort by his network of agents in the Balkans.

Paracelsus Bombastus von Hohenheim.

Hohenheim Paracelsus von Bombastus.

To Nubar, those syllables held mystical implications, sonorous suggestions of secret knowledge that had immediately captivated him when first he came across them, in 1921, at the age of fifteen.

Indulged as always by his grandmother, Sophia, he had begun writing to literary dealers and bibliophiles throughout the Balkans, offering huge sums of money for any works by Paracelsus that they could procure. Fortunes had changed drastically in the Great War. Powerful families had sunk into ruin, estates had been broken up. The tracts and treatises flowed in and before the end of the year, due to Sophia's enormous wealth and influence, Nubar had owned the largest collection of Paracelsus in the world.