‘I would have told him to shoot you, but I have something better in mind.’
Eddie didn’t like the sound of that, but kept quiet as he was hauled upright. The other man emerged from the lab. ‘I couldn’t find anything else,’ he reported.
Shaban regarded the block of C-4. ‘That would have been enough.’ He looked back at the detonator, then tipped out the battery before crushing the device under his heel.
‘Shit,’ Eddie muttered. The only way now to set off the hidden explosive was manually - which would take him with it. The pack had no timer.
The Egyptian read his expression. ‘No backup plan? Too bad.’ He smiled coldly. ‘You’ve come a long way to be here for my ceremony. So now . . . you can be part of it.’
Hands secured behind his back, Eddie was taken at gunpoint into the temple.
It was vastly more impressive than the auditorium in Paris. The doors through which the arriving cultists had entered led to a glass and steel staircase descending into a huge pit-like arena below floor level, the deep space filled with hundreds of people.
A central aisle had been left clear, green-clad men lining it like an honour guard. At its far end was another, narrower flight of stairs rising to a wide catwalk like extension from the front of a black marble stage. Four large, gleaming chrome statues of Egyptian gods stood at the protruding section’s corners. The walls were frosted glass panels laser-etched with hieroglyphs. The whole place seemed like some demented cross between a rock stadium and an Apple Store.
Shaban, Lorenz and Broma had taken a different route through the pyramid, leaving the guards to hustle Eddie down into the pit, along the aisle and up the unrailed stairs to the stage. Seeing that he was a prisoner, the cultists booed and bellowed for his blood. The sight of what, despite its chrome and glass trappings, looked uncomfortably like a sacrificial altar gave Eddie the nasty feeling that they expected to get it.
His captors took him to one side and waited, giving him a chance to look for possible escape routes. The only choices were back down into the pit, exits on each side of the stage - and a set of double doors at the centre of the back wall. This entrance was flanked by a pair of even larger statues. The bodies were of Osiris, similar to the statues outside the god-king’s tomb, but the heads were different, the figures having been recently decapitated and replaced by the visage of some strange beast, a fearsome, elongated cross between jackal and horse.
The face of Set.
Shaban had wasted no time in putting his mark on the temple. Eddie now also realised why the cultists had been made to go to the more distant entrance. The double doors led north, to ancient Egyptians the direction reserved for royalty. Osir had designed that feature of the temple for effect . . . but his brother believed it.
Minutes passed, the crowd’s anticipation rising. Then the lights dimmed.
‘Set! Set! Set!’ the cultists chanted, raising their clenched fists high to punch the air. ‘Set! Set! Set!’
The doors opened.
Spotlights tracking him, Shaban stepped on to the stage. When he left Eddie he had been wearing an expensive but understated suit - now, his clothes were anything but subtle. He had donned a set of green and black robes, a modern interpretation of traditional Egyptian royal clothing, and an elaborate headdress, again a stylised version of those traditionally worn by the pharaohs. Broma and Lorenz stood in the half-shadows behind him.
The cultists went berserk, screaming ‘Set!’ over and over again, stamping their feet so hard that the stage floor trembled. Shaban took in the adulation like his brother had before him, then raised his hands. The tumult quickly died down.
‘Servants of Set!’ he said, voice booming from loudspeakers; the headdress also contained a microphone. ‘Welcome! The day has finally come. The worthless platitudes of Osiris have been swept aside. He is no more. I am at last the true leader! I am Set reborn! And I will show the world the true power of a god!’
The response from the crowd was more frenzied than before. Even the guards surrounding Eddie were caught up in the moment - though not, he quickly found when he tested his bonds, enough to forget why they were on the stage. One jabbed a gun into his back as Shaban again signalled for silence.
The scientist who had crossed the courtyard with the cult leader earlier approached, bearing the containment flask. He bowed and presented it to Shaban, then retreated.
‘This,’ said Shaban in a low voice, ‘is the seed of our power. This is how the Temple of Set will spread my will over the world. In this container,’ his voice rose as he held the flask over his head, ‘is death. Death, to those who oppose us. Death, to the unbelievers. Death, to all those who refuse to bow to the might of Set!’
The crowd chanted and stamped again - though, Eddie realised, fractionally less powerfully than before. Maybe not all of them were one hundred per cent behind the idea of global genocide . . .
Shaban lowered the flask. ‘This container is just the first. When you leave, you will take with you many more. Slowly, invisibly, you will spread their contents across the world. By the time our enemies realise what we have done, it will be too late - they will already have consumed this death. There is only one way they can survive - by pledging their total obedience and worship to the Temple of Set! You, my followers, will be safe - the bread of Set will protect you.’ His voice rose again, almost a scream. ‘But only those I deem worthy will receive it - all others will die! The reign of Set has begun!’
Another explosion of approval came from the pit - but this time there were noticeable pockets showing rather less enthusiasm. The cult leader returned the flask to the scientist, then faced the crowd once more . . . though Eddie saw a now-familiar tension in Shaban’s face, anger just barely contained beneath the surface.
‘I know some of you may be having second thoughts,’ he said, his voice almost silky, reassuring. Shaban might not have had his brother’s oratorical skills, but he had certainly taken notes. ‘If you have doubts, now is the time to make them known.’ He gestured to the stairs leading up to the stage. ‘Come. Step forward. I will end your fears.’
He smiled, but his eyes were crocodile-cold. ‘Don’t do it!’ Eddie shouted, seeing a few of the cultists moving to the aisle, but the guards pistol-whipped him to his knees. His voice was lost in the murmurs of the crowd, those taking Shaban up on his offer being regarded with suspicion, even hostility, by the others.
About twelve men hesitantly grouped in the aisle. ‘There are no more?’ Shaban asked, mild tone and empty smile again concealing his emotions. He surveyed the crowd for any more signs of disaffection. Seeing none, his lips curled to reveal his true feelings. ‘Then bring them to me!’ he barked.
The guards lining the aisle had been prepared for this moment. In a sudden burst of action, they closed in from both sides, crashing together like two green waves. Fists and feet flailing, they beat the dissenters to the floor. When the chaos ebbed, the bloodied dozen were dragged up the stairs by three men each. The rest of the crowd began a horrible baying that grew louder and more animalistic as the moaning victims were brought to the altar.
Shaban glared at the doubters with contempt, then turned back to his followers. ‘You have accepted me as your leader - as your god! There is no room for doubt, no room for fear - I give you eternal life, and in return I demand eternal obedience! I am your god! I am Set!’
‘Set! Set! Set!’ screamed the crowd.
He moved behind the altar, picking up a long, wicked blade. A nod to the nearest group of guards, and their prisoner was hauled on to the glass-topped block. His cries for help went unheard beneath the mob’s yelling.