The Treasures of Suleiman

by The Treasures of Suleiman (retail) (epub)

  ‘Look, Mr Walker, I can assure you, I have no idea what you are talking about or the whereabouts of Miss Summers, so I suggest you do what you have to do, and if that includes wasting police time, then go ahead.’

  ‘How do you know her name is Summers?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said, “The whereabouts of Miss Summers”. I didn’t tell you her surname.’

  The phone went quiet for a second before the man answered again. ‘Where are you staying, Mr Walker?’

  ‘At the Palm Tree Hotel,’ said Brandon.

  ‘I will have a car pick you up in one hour, be ready and pack a bag.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We are going on a trip.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You will be told when you get here, and you are correct, I do know the whereabouts of Miss Summers. She is alive and well, however, if you call the authorities, that situation will instantly change. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘One hour,’ said Hundar. ‘And just for clarity, Mr Walker, let me assure you my people are everywhere, including the police force. Should you chose to ignore my warning and contact anyone, I will know about it within ten minutes. Miss Summers will be dead within eleven.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Brandon, ‘I will be ready.’ On the other end of the phone, Hundar hung up.

  ‘Well?’ asked Adriano.

  ‘You were right,’ said Brandon, ‘he knows where she is.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think he is taking me to see her.’

  “Do you think that is wise?’

  ‘What choice do I have? She is in his custody and I have no other options.’

  ‘I could call in and have his place raided within the hour. We take the kidnap of tourists very seriously around here.’

  ‘No, he made it very clear what would happen if we did that.’

  ‘Then he has all the cards. You shouldn’t do this, Brandon. Once you are off the radar, there isn’t much I can do to help.’

  ‘I understand, Adriano, but I’m not going to abandon India. The only reason she came out here is that I nagged her. I’ll go and meet him and see if I can get her released.’

  ‘This is a very dangerous man you are dealing with.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Brandon, ‘but I have a few tricks up my sleeve myself.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Adriano, ‘Special forces training.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘I worked for Gatilusi, remember?’ said Adriano. ‘And at one point he had you followed.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Brandon. ‘Very clever of him. Anyway, if anything does happen to us, you can call whoever you want and lock him away.’

  ‘Too late for you, though,’ said Adriano.

  ‘It can’t be helped,’ said Brandon. ‘Now, I have to grab my things and make a few calls. I have your number and will try to keep you informed. Thanks for your help, Adriano.’ He held out his hand and the Greek policeman paused before shaking it weakly.

  ‘Good luck, Brandon.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brandon and walked up to his room to pack.

  * * *

  India stood outside the tent, staring up at the stars. She had travelled to places throughout the world and looked up at the stars in most but here, in the middle of Egypt, the night sky was by far the darkest and the stars certainly the brightest. The night air was shockingly cold, yet she was enthralled how the starlight burned so fiercely in the vast nothingness. For the last three nights she had stepped out of the tent she was sharing with one of the Saljik families to enjoy the view. Each night had been just as much a thrill as the others, despite her knowing what to expect.

  Since she and Abbas had arrived, the whole tribe had travelled across the open expanse of the desert on camel back, stopping each night in sheltering wadis. At first she had been surprised that there were no guards posted outside the tent but she soon realised that it would have been pointless trying to escape. She was in the middle of nowhere, with no local knowledge and even less idea of how to survive in such an inhospitable climate. The Saljik obviously knew that and saw no reason to guard the tent overnight.

  She pulled the woollen blanket tighter around her shoulders against the cold.

  ‘Very beautiful, isn’t it?’ said a voice, and she turned to see Abbas sat against a camel saddle, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘It is,’ she said after a moment’s pause.

  ‘It is one of the few things I miss,’ said Abbas. ‘This and the wildness of the landscape.’

  ‘Don’t you miss the lifestyle?’ asked India.

  ‘What lifestyle?’ asked Abbas, an air of cynicism evident in his voice.

  ‘You know, the freedom, the traditions, the old way of life. I thought these were values people such as you cherish.’

  ‘Tell me, Miss Summers,’ said Abbas, flicking away the stub of his cigarette, ‘what have you seen over the last three days? What memories has this little journey left you with?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said India. ‘The heat and the rough landscape have both been ever present, I suppose, but the people are lovely. I also find their way of life fascinating, the colours on the traditional clothing are vibrant, the wonderful food is aromatic from the spices and the travel by camel back is very traditional.’

  ‘Traditional, you say,’ said Abbas. ‘What if I was to tell you that beneath the vibrant clothing, the children wear T-shirts with American baseball logos? What if I was to say that the exotic spices you speak of come from a jar and the camels we ride will soon be returned to their stables while their owners race up and down the roads in their new trucks.’

  ‘Really?’ said India.

  ‘Really,’ said Abbas. ‘The blanket you wear around your shoulders was probably made by children in some sweat shop in Pakistan. The wadis are way marked on GPS and in that tent over there, they are watching a show on satellite TV. Times are changing, India, the traditional way of life is disappearing fast as western influences creep forward. Tourists demand tradition, yet counter this with their own standards of living. They want to see the desert tents before returning to their own air-conditioned hotel rooms, take a camel ride before having a McDonald’s burger and stare at a traditional nomad whilst demanding their guide speaks their own language. Each is contradictory, and whilst that would be OK in the likes of Cairo, the tendrils of expectation creep ever outward into the deserts of my ancestors. The older generation dream of the days when they travelled the spice trails while the children dream of the latest sports footwear.’

  ‘Isn’t that hypocritical?’ asked India.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You aching for the traditional way of life, yet you are so comfortable in the modern world.’

  ‘Who said anything about yearning for the old days?’ asked Abbas. ‘I am one of the newer generation, the ones who see that it is pointless yearning for something that cannot be regained.’

  ‘So you would rather see all this come to an end?’ asked India.

  ‘If you mean the futile resistance to evolution, yes,’ said Abbas. ‘The quicker we realise that there is no way back, the better it will be for all.’

  A silence fell for a while before India spoke again.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  ‘Believe what you like,’ said Abbas.

  ‘I think that deep inside, you would like the old days back,’ said India, refusing to let go.

  ‘Oh, I admit there is a tiny fragment that fantasises about the traditional ways,’ said Abbas, ‘but that is swamped by the realisation that time marches on and if we are to take our place in this world, we have to reorder our priorities. Our tribal leaders should embrace technology and the western way of life. Admit that is the way forward and keep our traditions for the tourists with the fattest wallets. What we have at the moment is a halfway house with the worst of both worlds. There is no going back, only forward, and t
he sooner we accept that, the better.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ said India.

  ‘That’s progress,’ countered Abbas.

  India saw an opportunity and walked over to sit alongside Abbas.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ she asked quietly. ‘Why is this map so important to you that you risk imprisonment to kidnap me?’

  Abbas turned to her and stared for a few moments before answering.

  ‘Imprisonment?’ he said. ‘I will never go to prison, Miss Summers, I will die first.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I have killed many men, Miss Summers. Many deserved it, some didn’t. All had upset someone somewhere, and people are willing to pay well to make their enemies disappear. Some were simply family feuds, others were business rivals. The latest were a gang of youths in Istanbul who thought they could rob me of my hard-earned cash. They were wrong.’

  ‘So you are an assassin?’

  ‘As are all my tribe,’ said Abbas. ‘I killed my first man when I was nine, an old man asleep in his bed. He owed my father an apology which was not forthcoming so I plunged my blade into his heart for doing nothing more than spitting in front of my mother. My whole family celebrated that night, my coming of age as an assassin was a big occasion within our tribe.’

  ‘How do you sleep at night?’ she asked.

  ‘I sleep little, Miss Summers, for when I do, they revisit me. Every man, woman or child who have ever felt my blade are my constant bed companions. I close my eyes and they are there, every night, staring at me with sadness and pity on their faces. That is why I can never go to prison. At least out here there are the days to ease my fears. In prison I would be haunted by the pity of my victims’ spirits and I know they would rob me of my mind. So, to answer your question, Miss Summers, I know I will not go to prison, for if that time comes, I will take my own life and face my victims. Only then will my soul find rest.’

  The tone of his voice convinced India that this was no idle boast and she truly believed that he meant it.

  ‘Have you killed children?’ she asked.

  ‘Murder is murder, Miss Summers, there is no distinction. In this trade, once you start justifying who deserves to die and who does not, then you may as well turn your blade on yourself. Yes, I have killed children, and though I took no pleasure in the task, there was also no remorse.’

  ‘But what could a child possibly do that warranted murder?’

  ‘Perhaps nothing,’ said Abbas, ‘but when a client demands a whole family pays, then they can become an innocent casualty.’

  ‘Collateral damage?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘That’s business.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said India.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Why is this map so important?’

  ‘Despite my convictions, Miss Summers, I still owe an allegiance to my people. My father believes this map is an opportunity to regain much of which is lost. To purchase enough land to enable our tribe to live the way our ancestors did and avoid the unending approach of western influence. He asked me to find the map and though I thought it was a waste of time, I agreed.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I think there might be something in it. If all these clues have been correct so far, then there is a possibility that the rest may also be true.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘The belief is that the map holds the clues as to the whereabouts of the treasures of Suleiman, a treasure so vast that it dwarfs any that have been found throughout history.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘Not many people have. The name Suleiman only relates to the era, the treasure itself is reputed to have been hidden by one of his admirals, Kemal Reis. The map was drawn later by his nephew, Piri Reis.’

  ‘The famous Piri Reis map,’ said India.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Abbas. ‘Many people have long known the Piri Reis map relates to the whereabouts of the Kemal Reis treasure, but as half the map was missing, nobody ever knew where to look.’

  ‘Until now.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Abbas. ‘With the discovery of our half, the whole map can now be viewed in its entirety and a complete picture obtained. However, it’s not as simple as that. We still need to know how to read it, and that’s where you come in.’

  ‘I still can’t see how I am going to be able to decipher it,’ said India. ‘I’ve only ever seen it once and it made no sense whatsoever to me.’

  ‘You are too modest, Miss Summers,’ said Abbas. ‘With your historical knowledge and eye for detail we believe you will be able to at least point us in the right direction, and if you can’t, then it has cost us nothing. Don’t forget, you have already provided us with the map, a fact that in itself is quite extraordinary. The map has been sought for centuries without success, yet you have come along and within a few days, it is in our hands. No, you have a gift, Miss Summers, and one which we want to exploit.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ asked India.

  ‘To meet our sponsor,’ said Abbas. ‘Within a few days, you will have the pleasure of meeting Mr Mehmed Hundar.’

  ‘And who is he, exactly?’

  ‘A Turkish businessman and true heir to the title Sultan of Turkey.’

  India’s mind worked fast. If they were going to meet this man in the city, she might have an opportunity to raise the alarm.

  ‘So we are near to Cairo?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘We are three hundred miles from Cairo,’ said Abbas, ‘and in the middle of the Sahara Desert. However, it grows late, and I am very tired. Please excuse me, Miss Summers, my bed awaits. Feel free to make your escape, the nearest civilisation is sixty miles in that direction.’ With that, he stood up and walked to the large tent where India knew the single men slept.

  For a while she contemplated taking a water skin and taking her chances in the desert, but deep inside she knew it would be suicide. With one last look up at the night sky, she stood up and returned to her own tent. Tomorrow was a new day, and who knew what opportunities it would bring?

  * * *

  In Istanbul, Brandon Walker sat in the back of an impressive black limousine with an armed guard sitting either side of him. They had been driving for half an hour, though he had no idea where they were going. The windows were blacked out and a bulletproof glass partition separated the driver from the passengers. He tried making conversation with his guards to no avail. Finally the car stopped and one of the guards opened the door. After a muted conversation in Turkish, he turned around and leaned into the car.

  ‘Mr Walker,’ he said, ‘we have arrived, please step out of the car.’

  Brandon ducked his head before stepping out onto the concrete. For a second, he squinted against the light, harsh after the dark coolness of the limousine, but finally he took in his surroundings and looked up in awe.

  ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ he said.

  Chapter 15

  Sahara Desert

  India woke late, or at least what counted as late with these people. The sun was already clear of the horizon and her tent was empty apart from herself. She stepped out and took in the scene around her. Children were playing football in the dust while the men were sitting around in circles smoking cigarettes, but there seemed to be no sign of the women. She wandered between the tents and came across Abbas. He was stripped to the waist and washing in a bright red washbowl.

  She coughed to announce her presence.

  ‘Ahem.’

  Abbas turned and used a hand towel to wipe the water from his eyes before answering.

  ‘Miss Summers, good morning.’

  ‘Isn’t that wasteful?’ she asked.

  ‘What, the water?’

  ‘Yes, over the last three days the water has been rationed. I would have thought that as we are apparently over sixty miles away from civilisation then that situation would cont
inue.’

  ‘Sixty miles away from civilisation doesn’t mean sixty miles away from water, Miss Summers.’

  ‘There is water out here in the desert?’

  ‘If you know where to look for it, yes.’ He finished drying and pulled a clean T-shirt over his head. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’ He led her down through the wadi and around a bend in the natural canyon. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  India stared around her. All she could see was the dusty surface between the two low escarpments bordering the wadi.

  ‘Where?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘There,’ said Abbas, and pointed to a cleft in the wadi wall. They walked toward it and India could soon see the cleft was the entrance to a natural passage into the sandstone rock. ‘Go ahead,’ said Abbas, ‘take a look.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I’m not allowed,’ said Abbas. ‘Go ahead, it’s quite interesting, apparently. Just stay to the path.’

  India ducked into the cave and saw that the tiny passage led immediately downward. Stubby candles had been placed amongst the rocks to light the way and she found that she could just about stand up straight. Voices echoed in the distance and she found herself descending a steep set of steps, carved many generations earlier from the sandstone bedrock. Within minutes she came across a cavern lit by more candles and immediately saw the source of the noise. Several women were gathered around a pool of water filling the goatskins. The pool itself was quite small, no larger than a standard family car, but it was fed by a steady trickle of water seeping through the rock and the constant filling of water skins had no visible effect on the water level. The light from the candles reflected not only off the water surface but also off the embedded minerals in the cavern walls, giving it the effect of sparkling diamonds.

  ‘Wow,’ said India, ‘it’s beautiful.’

  One of the women called her over.

  ‘Kesi, hello,’ said India, recognising one of the ladies from her tent.