He made a final phone call to Adriano to confirm the details before sitting back in relief. He had done everything he could and all he could do now was wait for the flight to Athens. Brandon realised how tired he was and after setting the alarm on his phone lay back on the bed, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.
* * *
Twenty hours later Brandon sat outside a cafe overlooking the ferry dock in Athens, watching Adriano walking up the steps toward him. They shook hands and ordered a couple of cold drinks.
‘Did you get it?’ asked Brandon eventually.
‘I did,’ said Adriano. ‘I have the documents here.’ He tapped the chest of his jacket.
‘Can I have them?’ asked Brandon.
‘Brandon,’ said Adriano, ‘I don’t know what is going on, but I do know one of my oldest friends is dead, by the hands of a man wanted for several murders. At least one of those was a politician and this is bordering on becoming an international incident. Now, this is not your part of the world, but it is mine. I have a lot of contacts in the authorities and I know how things work around here. I can help you, but in return, you need to be honest with me and tell me everything.’
Brandon considered for a few moments before realising the situation was getting out of hand. What had started as a treasure hunt had turned into a murder investigation, but more than that, India’s life was at risk. He knew he had no option and if he stood any chance of helping India at all, he needed the help of this man.
‘OK,’ he said eventually with a sigh, and spent the next twenty minutes bringing Adriano right up to date. Finally he sat back and stared across the table at the policeman.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’
Adriano took a long drink before leaning back in his own chair and removing his glasses to wipe them with a clean handkerchief.
‘Brandon,’ he said eventually, ‘first of all, I have to say that the fact you were, shall we say, less than honest with me the last time we met gives me cause for concern. However, that said, I can see that perhaps your perception was clouded by the excitement of the chase, but let’s not forget, my best friend lies dead and this man called Abbas is on the top of the most wanted list in this part of the world. If you had explained all this the last time we met, then your friend would perhaps not be in the danger she now faces.’
‘Adriano,’ said Brandon, ‘you are right, and yes, I should have been more open, but what is done is done. I have now told you everything, so can you help me or not?’
Adriano put his glasses back on and reached in his pocket.
‘I think you are in luck,’ he said, ‘because if everything you have just said is true, then I just may know who is behind this.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. If I am correct, the person we need to speak to is a man named Mehmed Hundar.’
‘And who is he?’
‘He is a businessman based in Istanbul and claims to be the natural born successor to the throne of Turkey. Apparently he can trace his ancestry right back to the time of Suleiman in the fifteenth century.’
‘But I thought that lineage had come to an end,’ said Brandon.
‘It did, but not until just after the First World War, when all this area was carved up by the west. The traditionalists still hold a grudge over that, and this Mehmed Hundar has a lot of followers who would love to see it return to the old dynasty.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘Well, at first I couldn’t work it out, but since Abbas Bin Syndic was seen on Samothrace, I have been in close contact with the Turkish police and it turns out that his father was seen leaving the office of the would-be sultan a few days earlier. On the same night, a local prostitute who was known to be hanging around with Abbas was found with her throat cut as well as six young thugs from the same area.’
‘You think Hundar sponsored Gatilusi’s death?’
‘Think about it,’ said Adriano. ‘Whatever it is that Gatilusi discovered, it cost him his life. We know it is related to a map of some sort and if it turns out to be some sort of archaeological treasure related to Hundar’s lineage, it would be of great value to his claim to the throne. Politically speaking, it would be enormous and could just get the people of his country behind him in the next elections. Once there, there would be no stopping him.’
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the three documents Brandon had left in the biscuit tin. He placed them on the table between them.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘why don’t you talk me through these?’
‘The parchment is a letter,’ said Brandon. ‘Apparently it was written sometime in the sixteenth century and alludes to a map that shows the way to a great treasure. The lined paper has the translation and we believe this was written by Gatilusi. I have no idea if it is accurate.’
‘It is,’ said Adriano. ‘I took the liberty of having it checked. What I don’t understand is why you saw fit to jet off halfway across Egypt on a treasure hunt on the basis of this?’
‘There is an extra message on the parchment,’ said Brandon, ‘hidden between the lines in invisible ink. We deciphered the message and it led us to Kom-Ombo.’
‘Do you have a copy of the message?’
‘No, but it doesn’t matter, we found what it was referring to, though it is now in the hands of Abbas.’
‘And what exactly did you find?’
‘A waterproof pot, hidden hundreds of years ago. I have no idea what it contains but assume it is the map referred to.’
‘And you have no idea where Abbas has taken India?’
‘None, and that’s why I contacted you. I was hoping there might be something more in these documents. Something we may have missed.’
Adriano picked up the photograph.
‘What about this?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ said Brandon, ‘but I do think it is crucial in this whole thing. Why else would Gatilusi include it with the rest of the documents?’
Adriano studied it closely.
‘It seems like a coffin,’ he said.
‘Do you recognise it?’
‘No, the use of coffins is extremely rare in this part of the world, especially in antiquity. Trees are not our most abundant resource, you understand.’
‘But they were used occasionally, right?’
‘Sometimes, though usually by wealthy men.’
‘Like the sultans?’ Brandon asked.
‘No, royalty were usually buried in stone tombs. The greater ones used granite covered with marble. Wooden coffins were available but were seen as a waste of money by the poor and though they were used in the burial ceremonies, the bodies were usually removed prior to interment and laid in the grave with nothing more than the shroud covering them. Coffins could be used many times by many people.’
‘So this is the coffin of an official or a wealthy man?’
‘Possibly,’ said Adriano. ‘Perhaps it was as a boast to the community about how wealthy and important the deceased actually was.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not really, but I would like to see it close up. Do you know where it is?’
‘No,’ said Brandon, ‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me.’
Adriano stared at the photograph again. The empty casket was stood against a wall with the lid alongside it. The wall was plain painted plaster and the floor made of flagstones. Apart from that there was nothing else in the photograph apart from a black line cutting diagonally across the bottom left-hand corner.
‘Hang on,’ said Adriano. ‘What’s that?’
Brandon looked at it and shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I thought it was a mark on the floor.’
‘Too indistinct,’ said Adriano. ‘The rest of the picture is very clear. No, I think it is a shadow of some sort.’
Brandon looked again.
‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘and it’s not straight. It seems to be looping.’
�
��I agree,’ said, Adriano. ‘I think the flash was aimed at the coffin but the camera picked up the shadow at the limit of the photograph.’
‘Is it important?’ asked Brandon.
‘Could be,’ said Adriano. ‘It looks like the shadow of a thick rope being held between poles and looping down in the middle. I think the person taking the photograph was kept from getting closer due to a crowd control barrier with one of those ornate ropes, and where would we find those?’
‘In a museum?’ said Brandon.
‘Exactly. I think this coffin is on display in a museum.’
‘But there must be thousands of museums in this part of the world,’ said Brandon.
‘I agree, but this one is in the Topkapi Palace.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s written on the back.’
‘But that says TS, not TP.’
‘I know, but you are thinking in English. In Turkish the Topkapi Palace is known as Topkapi Saray.’
Brandon took the photo from Adriano and stared at it again.
‘So there’s nothing more you can tell from the photograph.’
‘Sorry, no, but perhaps if we were to see it close up there might be something else.’
‘Look,’ said Brandon, ‘I have no idea if it will help or not, but this is the only thing we have. This Abbas person has the map and India but there has to be a reason Gatilusi put the photograph in the tin. We have to go there and take a closer look.’ He stopped talking and pulled out his phone and a credit card.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Adriano.
‘What do you think?’ asked Brandon. ‘I’m booking a couple of flights to Istanbul.’
Chapter 13
Egyptian Desert
Outskirts of Aswan
India sat in the back of the taxi as it drove away from the Nile. They had left the felucca behind and were travelling north toward Cairo, where Abbas had said his contacts would be able to get more information about Brandon. Though she now knew his true identity, India knew that she had to keep up the pretence a bit longer, at least until she could reach civilisation and report Brandon’s incarceration to the police. After that, she would come clean and tell the authorities everything.
She watched the village life slip past outside the window as they made their way toward the next town where the train station was situated. Abbas was quiet and apart from the excited conversation over the map the previous evening had spent most of his time on a mobile phone speaking in Arabic to the person on the other end. When questioned by India, he had explained he was arranging Brandon’s release.
After about half an hour on the dusty tarmac road, Abbas leaned forward and said something to the driver. The taxi slowed and turned right off the road onto a dirt track leading toward some nearby rocky hills. India’s brow creased in concern and she leaned forward to stare out of the windscreen.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, India,’ said Abbas, ‘change of plan.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said India. ‘I thought we had to be at the train station by noon.’
‘All will be revealed,’ said Abbas, ‘just be patient a little longer.’
India sat back, knowing she was in this man’s hands. Ten minutes later, after a command from Abbas, the taxi stopped and Abbas stepped out, closely followed by the driver. They retrieved a holdall from the boot and Abbas handed over a thick bundle of dollars. Finally the driver got back into the driving seat while Abbas opened the rear door for India to get out.
‘Miss Summers, please get out of the car,’ he said.
‘But I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘why have you brought us here?’
‘Please,’ he repeated, ‘get out of the car and I will explain.’
India stayed where she was and stared at him for several seconds.
‘No,’ she said finally. ‘Driver, take me back to Kom-Ombo.’
The driver looked into the mirror and grinned back at her in silence.
‘Miss Summers,’ said Abbas, ‘please do as I say, or this situation will get unfortunate. Now, for the last time, will you please get out of the car?’
‘I won’t,’ said India, and leant forward to close the door. Before she could, Abbas reached in and, grabbing her by her hair, dragged her screaming from the taxi before throwing her violently to the rocky ground. For a few seconds she was dazed and felt blood trickling from her bottom lip, where she had hit her mouth on a rock. Finally she looked up and watched in despair as the taxi skidded back down the track, leaving her and Abbas in the middle of nowhere.
‘You bastard,’ she said, pushing herself up onto her knees. ‘I should have known not to trust you.’
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I know who you are,’ she said.
‘And who am I, exactly?’ he asked.
‘Abbas Bin Syndic,’ she spat, ‘a wanted murderer.’
Abbas nodded slightly in acknowledgement.
‘I am impressed, Miss Summers,’ he said, ‘but it matters not. In fact, it comes as a bit of a relief to me, for now we can be honest with each other.’
India stood and wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand while staring at him with hate in her eyes.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘let me help you,’ and drawing a clean handkerchief from an inside pocket, leaned forward to wipe her face.
India stepped back from his proffered hand, shocked by how quick his manner had swung from violence to care.
‘I want nothing from you,’ she hissed. ‘Stay away from me.’
Abbas paused with his hand still outstretched.
‘I am sorry about that little episode,’ he said, ‘but it was necessary. I do not intend to harm you. Please, take this, for as we are going to be together for quite a while, you may as well get used to the idea.’
‘You are not going to kill me?’
‘No, Miss Summers, I am not going to kill you.’
India paused and her eyes narrowed.
‘Don’t think you are going to rape me, you bastard,’ she snarled, ‘for I promise I will scratch out your eyes before you get anywhere near.’
Abbas leaned his head back and let out a guffaw.
‘Miss Summers,’ he laughed, ‘I can kill a man in more ways than you could imagine and fear nobody on this planet, yet I feel you may actually be capable of what you threaten. So, though I find you very attractive, I have no intention of harming you in anyway whatsoever.’
Feeling slightly relieved she finally stepped forward and snatched the handkerchief away from him. Abbas turned his back and went to pick up the holdall the driver had left behind. In a few minutes he had returned with two bundles of clothing.
‘Put this on,’ he said, throwing her a white thawb.
‘I will not,’ she said. ‘I am happy with my own clothing.’
‘Miss Summers,’ said Abbas, the edge returning to his voice, ‘let me explain. We have to walk about thirty miles in that direction.’ He pointed over the nearby hills. ‘I have two water bottles and a little food. If you do as I say, this will be plenty; however, we will have to cross a salt plain on the other side of these hills and there will be no shade. The sun reflects off the salt pan and if you want to wear your shorts, then you will burn horribly. Also, the rest of your clothing will not offer enough protection from the sun.’
‘Why are we going there?’ she asked.
‘I will explain as we go,’ he said, ‘but believe me, you will be far more comfortable in a thawb.’
‘And if I refuse to go with you?’
‘Look around you, Miss Summers. If you stay here you will die. Nobody knows you are here and you won’t get five miles in this terrain before getting lost. Without water you will be lucky to get that far.’
‘The taxi driver knows I am here,’ she countered.
‘Do you really think I would have let him go if I thought his silence wasn’t guaranteed?’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, I get it,’ said India. ‘Another cousin, I suppose.’
‘My tribe are spread far and wide, Miss Summers,’ he said.
‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’
‘You don’t.’
‘OK,’ she said eventually, ‘but then I want some answers.’
‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘You get changed and I will answer all your questions. You can get some privacy behind that rock.’ He threw the thawb over and she made her way behind the nearby rock to get changed. A few minutes later, her old clothes were in a pile and Abbas set them alight to avoid leaving any trail.
‘Right,’ said India, ‘tell me what this is all about.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘First of all, is Brandon alive?’
‘I believe he is,’ said Abbas. ‘The last I saw him he was looking up at me from the bottom of the Nileometer. By now he is probably a guest of the Egyptian police.’
‘So how do you know the police are not already on your trail?’
Abbas pulled an apple from his own thawb and started to peel slices off with nonchalance.
‘Because he knows that if he says anything, then your safety becomes, shall we say, fragile.’
India swallowed, fighting the bile that rose in her throat.
‘So you lied?’ she said. ‘I am in danger.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Abbas. ‘If you do as I say, you will be free to return to Britain in a matter of days.’
‘If that’s true,’ said India, ‘why keep me at all?’
‘Because you are a very special lady,’ said Abbas. ‘My sponsor has done his research and would like to meet you.’
‘And who exactly is your sponsor?’
‘All in good time, but suffice to say, he is an important man in this part of the world.’
The Treasures of Suleiman Page 14
