‘But why does he want to meet me?’
‘In the short time I have known you, Miss Summers, you have exhibited a detailed knowledge of history partnered with a uniquely inquisitive mind. It is a very valuable and productive talent, one that my sponsor would like to explore further.’
‘I don’t understand, you already have the map, what more do you want?’
‘You forget, Miss Summers, back on Samothrace I too had sight of that parchment, and I recall there was reference to a key written on the map. After you went to sleep last night I spent hours trying to work out any hidden message without success. You, however, may have more luck, but after discussing it with my client, it was decided to wait until you were in his company before seeing it again.’
‘That’s madness,’ said India. ‘Even if I could decipher the map, there is no way I will tell you or any of your cronies anything.’
‘I think you will, Miss Summers,’ said Abbas, placing another slice of apple in his mouth. ‘You see, my trade lies in the administration of death in its many different forms, and by implication, I know many fellow practitioners all around this part of the world. One phone call from me and your friend will be dead within the hour.’
India stared at him for an age, her mind taking in the implications. ‘So, you have us both ways,’ she said. ‘I have to help you or Brandon will die, and Brandon has to keep quiet or I will die.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Abbas. ‘Quite a nice arrangement, even if I say so myself.’
‘Next question,’ said India. ‘Why have you brought me out here?’
‘As I said earlier,’ answered Abbas, ‘I have a certain notoriety in this part of the world and seldom use mainstream transport. The fact that I had to use an airline to travel out here with you was a risk in itself, but unavoidable in order to maintain the pretense. However, I am nothing if not careful and will not be using that airline again anytime soon, at least not on this passport.’ He threw the document onto the fire. ‘Call it paranoia,’ he continued, ‘but it has kept me alive this long, and old habits die hard.’
‘But why out here?’ she asked. ‘We are in the middle of nowhere.’
‘I have arranged transport to meet us on the other side of the salt plains,’ he said. ‘All we have to do is to get there by dawn the day after tomorrow and life will get much easier. Miss it and we will have a long, long way to walk.’ He stood up and cast the apple core into the rocks. ‘Now, we have talked long enough. I have kept my part of the bargain and I want to be well on our way before darkness falls. One more thing, though, before we leave.’
‘What?’
‘Your phone,’ he said, and held out his hand. India paused before realising it was pointless arguing; this man held all the aces. Finally she handed over the phone she had been concealing beneath her thawb and watched in frustration as Abbas smashed it on the ground.
‘Now,’ he said with smile, ‘this is a very unforgiving place. If you do as I say, we will be fine, but any funny business and you could end up out here on your own.’ He handed her one of the water bags made from goatskins. ‘There is enough water in there to last the journey,’ he said. ‘Use it sparingly, as there is no more until tomorrow night.’ He picked up his backpack and looked up at the sky. ‘Four hours until nightfall,’ he said. ‘I want to be at Wadi-Kima by then.’ And without another word he started up the path toward the nearby escarpment.
India stared for a few moments and contemplated running as fast as she could in the opposite direction but soon realised Abbas was right. Without him she would die out here, so her only hope was that as soon as he led them back to civilisation, she could seek an opportunity to escape. With a sigh, she picked up the water bag and followed in his footsteps.
* * *
If India thought the climb to the top of the escarpment was hard, what followed was almost indescribable and the welcoming breeze, slight as it was, disappeared completely when they descended onto the plain at the other side. Crags that had given way to boulders soon gave way to a rocky plain, but within the hour this too disappeared and the ground beneath her feet turned into a baked surface of sand and salt mix. The white background reflected the searing heat and India found herself squinting against the glare from the blinding surface as she tried to keep sight of Abbas several hundred yards ahead of her.
Within a few hours India was struggling and had drunk half of the foul-tasting water from the water skin. She even spared some to wet her hand and pat it on her face and the back of her neck. Even though it was the hardest thing she had ever done, India was determined not to look weak in front of Abbas, so with steely determination she struggled on, forcing one foot in front of the other with a repetitive resolve born of stubbornness. Due to the glare of the salt pan, she formed a strategy to ease the strain on her eyes. One hundred paces with eyes closed, then open them again to make sure she hadn’t lost Abbas’ trail. Adjust direction slightly if necessary, then repeat. Over and over she counted out the hundred paces, each time adjusting her direction, but finally, realising she had lost count, she opened her eyes and stopped in horror when she realised the Arab had gone.
India stared for a few seconds before spinning around, searching the horizon for any sign of him. Behind her she could see her footprints in the dust but before her, where she could once see the trail left by Abbas, there was nothing. Fighting back the panic, India took stock of the situation and her analytic mind kicked in.
First of all, he couldn’t have disappeared, that was impossible. She looked back at her own trail and realised that it actually curved severely to the right. It seemed that while she had been walking the last leg with her eyes closed, she had veered severely off course and that’s why she had lost his trail. All she had to do was retrace her steps and eventually they had to cross his.
The thought of going back drained her, but with no other option, she started back the way she had come, though this time with her eyes wide open.
* * *
An hour later, India approached an outcrop of rocks rising from the plain like some unnatural growth. She had retraced her steps and found Abbas’ tracks before following them here. The sun was low and though the intense heat had eased, she was in a terrible state and her feet dragged painfully on the plain. Her lips were cracked and she had finished the last of the water an hour earlier, dropping the empty water pouch on the ground.
For a second, India paused as she thought she heard something but soon staggered on, hoping the voice she had heard was Abbas with some spare water. Finally she clambered up the rocky slope and stood on the top of the escarpment, staring in confusion at the scene below.
At first she thought she was hallucinating. She had heard of such things before, about people suffering the effects of sunstroke seeing mirages in the desert, but this seemed too real.
Her senses were battling against each other after the nothingness of the salt pan. The colours on the tents were so vibrant they were almost painful to the eyes. The smells of something delicious cooking on an unseen campfire demanded her long dried glands to salivate once more. But more than that, so much more, was the sound of the children playing in the pool of glorious water. Without thinking she staggered down the slope, ignoring everything around her as she focused on just one thing, the water.
The closer she got, the more blurred things became, the children seemed like ghostly images and the colours blurred into a colourful haze. Even the camel’s braying sounded like a madman’s laugh to her and finally, as her goal seemed so close, India collapsed onto the burning sand.
Chapter 14
Istanbul
Brandon and Adriano looked at the queue waiting for the gates of the Topkapi Palace museum to open. They had landed in Istanbul the evening before and booked into a cheap hotel before meeting up at breakfast to plan their day. Eventually, they had walked through the vibrant streets of the city and joined the snakelike row of tourists waiting their turn to enter the famous palace of the sultans.
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They walked through the outer gardens and up to the gates of the inner city, finding a nearby bench while they waited for the museum to open at nine.
‘Wow, that is one impressive building,’ said Brandon, staring up at the magnificent towers looming above.
‘It is,’ said Adriano, ‘though technically it is not a building, more of a complex. It has dozens of buildings and hundreds of rooms. It evolved over hundreds of years through the reigns of many rulers.’
‘Does the king still live there?’ asked Brandon.
Adriano laughed.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Brandon.
‘Nothing,’ laughed Adriano, ‘it’s just that I can see who has the historical knowledge between you and India. No, Brandon, there is no king here, they have a president and have done since the 1920s. Before that the rulers were called sultans or caliphs and though many did indeed live in this extraordinary place, over the last two hundred years or so it fell out of favour and was turned into a tourist attraction. Millions of people every year travel here and it contains all sorts of marvels from the Muslim world.’
‘Well, it certainly looks impressive,’ said Brandon. ‘Shouldn’t we join the queue?’
‘No, let the rush go,’ said Adriano. ‘Most of them will be headed for the harem. Our destination lies elsewhere.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, the palace is made up of several different museums covering many different aspects of their history across hundreds of years. The one we want lies away from the marble and gold trappings, in a lesser part of the palace. Come, the queue is almost gone.’
They stood up and walked to the gates before paying the entrance fee. As Adriano had said, most of the crowd made a beeline toward one of the inner buildings whilst a few spread out to explore the lesser-known parts of the complex.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Brandon.
‘The cemeteries,’ said Adriano. ‘If we are looking for a coffin, it seems to me that is the best place to start. There’s a museum hall there showing the different practices throughout the ages.’ They walked across the immaculate lawns, passing swathes of tulips on the way. Finally, they reached a graveyard containing all sorts of closely packed headstones across an area the same size as a football field.
‘I didn’t realise they had the same cemeteries as us,’ said Brandon.
‘They didn’t for a long time,’ said Adriano. ‘Usually the burials were very informal and just grassed over to make a recreational area. They also loved to plant flowers and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have just crossed a big cemetery without knowing it. These headstones are a recent fad and only stretch back a couple of hundred years. Look, there’s our museum.’ He pointed to a small octagonal building without windows. The door was open and a curator sat outside on a wooden bench, enjoying the morning sun.
‘Good morning,’ said Adriano. ‘Can we go in?’
‘Of course,’ said the man in English.
Brandon and Adriano walked inside and immediately saw a display of coffins standing upright around the walls. In front of them was a thick red rope suspended from chrome poles, a subtle request not to touch the exhibits. The first coffin was a simple casket made from woven reeds, obviously an example of the simplest coffin to be had. As the exhibit continued they increased in quality, and they walked around the display, looking for the one in the photograph.
Brandon retrieved a leaflet from a table to one side and turned to the English translation.
‘Apparently coffins were a rare indulgence in the past,’ he said, ‘with only the rich being able to afford them. These are examples from various tombs that have been uncovered during alterations or excavations both here in the palace and elsewhere in the city.’ He turned to Adriano but the Greek had stepped into a side room. Brandon followed him in.
‘There it is,’ said Adriano as Brandon joined him. In front of the men was a set of three coffins, occupying a wall of their own. Each was ornately decorated but the one they were interested in was the centre of the three. A simply made casket stood upright against the wall and alongside it stood the lid, an object of exquisite craftsmanship and extraordinary beauty. Though most of the paint had been worn away by time, enough traces were still present to see the whole thing had once been painted brilliant white, but the most extraordinary thing of all was the decoration carved deep into the wood itself. All around the edges was a twisted vine, interspersed with representations of ripe fruit and exotic flying birds, but at the centre was a single object, a deeply engraved image of a large, ornately designed key.
The two men focused on the design for several minutes.
‘What do you think it means?’ asked Brandon.
‘I don’t know,’ said Adriano. ‘I have never seen such a thing.’
‘It is striking,’ said Brandon and pulled out his camera. ‘The person who was buried in here must have been very rich.’
‘Possibly,’ said Adriano, ‘but there is something I don’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘The lid is indeed very ornate and in very good condition, but the actual casket is a much poorer quality. If you look closer you can see it is made from several lengths of timber, held together on the inside with smaller strips as vertical struts. This is a standard construction, but doesn’t fit in with the lid. Why have a cheap casket and an expensive lid?’
‘Perhaps the owner only had so much money,’ suggested Brandon.
‘Someone with little money would not spend the last of it going to his grave, his family or friends would come first and he would leave the money to them.’
‘You keep saying he. How do you know it wasn’t a woman?’
‘Only men could have coffins,’ said Adriano. ‘Women were just buried in their shrouds.’
Brandon zoomed in with his camera and took several photographs, covering every inch of the lid while Adriano examined the casket.
‘Anything there?’ asked Brandon.
‘No, it’s just a cheap casket, though there is an inscription burned into one of the planks.’
‘What does it say?
‘I don’t know, it’s in Turkish. Probably the maker’s name, I suppose.’
Brandon took some last pictures of the casket before putting away his camera.
‘Are you done?’ asked Adriano.
‘I think I’ve got everything I need,’ said Brandon, and the two men left the museum to walk back out of the palace. An hour later, they sat in the corner of a hotel lounge, poring over the A4 images the receptionist had printed for them from Brandon’s camera. Slowly they examined each one in minute detail but could not see anything of significance. Finally they sat back in defeat, none the wiser as to why Gatilusi had taken pictures of the coffin.
‘That’s it then,’ said Adriano. ‘We have come to a standstill.’
‘There is one more thing we can do,’ said Brandon.
‘Really, what?’
‘We can talk to that politician you told me about. What was his name?’
‘Mehmed Hundar,’ said Adriano, ‘though I’m not sure you want to do that, he is a dangerous man.’
‘So am I,’ said Brandon, ‘and I’m not giving up on India now. Where can I find him?’
‘He has offices in Istanbul,’ said Adriano, ‘not far from here.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ asked Brandon. ‘Come on.’
They left the hotel and called a taxi. Ten minutes later they were outside a large multi-storey office block. Brandon led the way in and walked to the desk. The receptionist smiled as he approached.
‘Hello,’ said Brandon, ‘do you speak English?’
‘I do,’ she answered. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We would like to speak to Mr Hundar, please,’ said Brandon, ‘Mr Mehmed Hundar?’
‘And who shall I say is calling?’ asked the receptionist.
‘My name is Brandon Walker, but he isn’t expecting me. Could you tell him I need to speak to him urge
ntly?’
‘I will try,’ said the receptionist, ‘but Mr Hundar speaks to people by appointment only.’ She picked up the phone and talked to the person on the other end in Turkish. Finally she put the phone down and turned to the two men.
‘I’m afraid Mr Hundar is out at the moment,’ she said, ‘but if you would like to leave a name and number, his secretary will tell him you called.’ Brandon took the pen and paper and scribbled down his number. After a moment’s pause, he added another line of writing and handed it over. The two men left the offices and made their way back to the hotel.
‘Did you leave him a message?’ asked Adriano.
‘I did,’ said Brandon. ‘I put a hook on there. A sentence that would make no sense to an innocent man, but if he is involved, it will guarantee he calls back.’
‘What did you write?’
‘I kept it simple. All I wrote was, “I know about India”. It won’t mean anything to most people, but if he calls back, then we have our man.’
They had just left the taxi and walked into the hotel reception area when Brandon’s phone rang.
‘It’s a withheld number,’ he said, glancing at Adriano as he pressed the button. ‘Hello, Brandon Walker speaking.’
‘Mr Walker, hello, my name is Mehmed Hundar.’
‘Hello, Mr Hundar,’ said Brandon. ‘I was expecting your call.’
‘How can I help you, Mr Walker? Your message was a bit, shall we say, obscure.’
‘Look, Mr Hundar, I won’t waste your time. The fact that you rang me back means you know exactly why I am calling. I am looking for my friend India, and I believe you know where she is.’
‘Mr Walker, you have me at a disadvantage. I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Nice try, Mr Hundar,’ said Brandon, ‘but what if I was to say this. I know that India was abducted by a man called Abbas Bin Syndic and that you have had contact with his father quite regularly in the last few months. Now, I know that could all be a coincidence, but I thought it would be better if you and I had a chat rather than go through the authorities. Would you agree?’
The Treasures of Suleiman Page 15
