Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Caroline Vermalle

“She’s been waiting over an hour,” his assistant whispered as he made his way into his office.

  “Can I help you?” he asked her.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I am from the Egyptian Museum.” She blushed as she handed a heavy envelope to him. “Dr. Al-Shamy was very clear that I should deliver it in person, and remind you that it is highly confidential.”

  As Aqmool took the envelope, she bowed obsequiously and hurried away without a word.

  The policeman wondered why, if the contents of the envelope was so important, Al-Shamy had not sent Moswen, his right-hand man.

  Back in his office, with the door closed, he opened the envelope and pulled out a printed document nearly two hundred pages thick.

  On the front of the first page was typed:

  EGYPTIAN CAIRO MUSEUM

  CONFIDENTIAL:

  Internal Investigation Report on the Theft of Antiquities January 28, 2011

  After the police chief and the FBI were gone, the softly spoken doctor returned the body of Seth Pryce to its place in the refrigerated locker. He threw his gloves into an overflowing rubbish bin.

  When he was sure no one was looking, he put the file marked S. PRYCE – PRELIMINARY into his leather briefcase. He took off his lab coat and sighed.

  He did not like being away in the middle of the day, especially with all the work that was waiting for him. There had been more riots, and the bodies were coming in at a frantic pace. But, he told himself, it was necessary.

  Absolutely necessary.

  An hour later, he was back. The file was gone from his case and in its place were packs of new surgical gloves, which he distributed to his staff before. He put on his coat again and walked over to the examining table. On it lay the body of a young protester who had just arrived, a bullet wound between its lifeless eyes.

  21

  Florence paced up and down the sidewalk, talking rambunctiously into her smartphone, opposite the address given by Franklin Hunter. Immaculately dressed women scowled at her as she obstructed their path to the next luxury boutique, but Florence paid them no notice. At the other end of the phone, Gayle, the executive producer and Florence’s boss, was furious.

  “The information this guy gave you is total nonsense, okay? Andrew checked it out. For a start, there isn’t a private investigator in Philadelphia named Franklin G. Hunter. It's out of the question for you to sign anything with this guy, do you hear me?”

  Florence gritted her teeth. “I know it’s a risk, but I’ve got a gut feeling about this one, this is big. I had the same gut feeling about Nefertiti, and it paid off, didn’t it?”

  “Your flight back to London is booked, it leaves tomorrow afternoon, make sure you are on it. You have too much work on Nefertiti to get distracted now, leave the other leads for someone else. If you follow them all, you’ll end up with nothing. Trust me, I’ve learned it the hard way.”

  Gayle launched into the lessons from her thirty-year career, but Florence was only half-listening. A big black limo had just stopped in front of the building. Two men climbed out. One was about sixty, with a dark two-piece suit and dark tie. He was stocky, with a face that had an odd jovial air about it, and yet there seemed to be no joy behind his small round tortoiseshell glasses. The other was of the same age, but tall and thin, with a pale complexion. He was wearing a velvet jacket of deep magenta and, under his fedora, a gray ponytail tied back with a ribbon.

  It was Yohannes DeBok.

  The two men breezed quickly inside what looked like an antique shop. A blonde woman locked the door behind them.

  “All right, Gayle, I get it. Stick to Nefertiti. Understood. Gotta run. I’m about to sign up Yohannes DeBok.”

  “What?? How did you-”

  “Chat later, bye!”

  Satisfied with the disbelief in Gayle’s voice, she ended the call and ran across the street.

  The shop window contained only one item: a tiny mummy on a pedestal. It was about twenty-five inches long and only a few inches wide. Far too small to be a child, thought Florence, reassured. The blackened bandages tapered one side so that the end looked a bit like the tip of an oversized, rolled cigarette. There was no ornament or inscription on the flax strips, just the strange oblong shape. The rest of the window was darkened with plum-colored paint so that the little mummy appeared like a jewel in a case. A curtain of the same plum color covered the door and there were no lights on behind the window, so it was impossible to see much beyond the window display.

  Florence knocked on the door. Nobody came. She cupped her hands against the window and looked inside. The walls were painted white and enclosed a severely minimalist interior. It looked more like a contemporary art gallery than an antique store. Suddenly, Florence saw the flicker of a shadow. The curtain was pulled aside, and the blonde woman unlocked and opened the door. Her makeup was thick yet neutral, and her clothes smart. She wore only a few chosen pieces of heirloom quality jewelry, which gave her an air of refined elegance. A thick scar ran from the right side of her lip to her chin.

  “I'm sorry, the shop is closed.” Her icy cold tone and her shifting gaze were unambiguous.

  “What time do you open?” Florence asked, trying to buy time while stealing a glance further into the shop. Towards the rear, boxes of different sizes were stacked against the wall.

  “We closed for good a few days ago. I'm sorry,” the woman said as she pushed the door close.

  Florence slipped her foot into the closing gap, jamming the door open. “I just want to talk to Mr. DeBok, I saw him come in. It won’t take a second.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “My name is Florence Mornay-Devereux, I work for the BBC.”

  The woman’s face suddenly hardened. Her green eyes shot up to stare at Florence and lingered there for a split second, as if to study her. Finally, her gaze still probing the journalist, she said:

  “If you are a journalist, then you should know that Mr. DeBok never gives interviews.”

  Florence, who for a moment had believed she had found a way in, scrabbled for one last chance. “But three million viewers watch our programs–”

  “Goodbye.”

  “They are respected by critics and the entire scientific community–”

  “Your foot is blocking the door.” The woman’s tone was inarguably more menacing. One flicker of a hand was enough for the driver of the black limo to start walking in their direction.

  “Wait!” Florence begged, an idea forming in her mind. “Wait. This mummy,” she said, pointing at the object on display in the window. “Is it still for sale? I’ll buy it. A souvenir.”

  “We were going to pack it tonight,” the woman answered. “It is of the twenty-seventh Dynasty, originally from Akhmim near Thebes. Very… rare.”

  “How… rare?” Florence asked.

  “Nine thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The woman looked her over once again. Florence could tell that she was trying to reconcile how this pink-haired, poorly dressed girl with nothing and nobody to recommend her could afford, apparently on a whim, such a precious antique. Finding nothing, or perhaps looking to call her bluff, the woman fluttered her eyelashes with a smile only a few degrees warmer than before. “Very well. Come in, then.”

  But Florence was not bluffing. She never tired of seeing those moments when people were forced to confront their prejudices. Some would have called it juvenile or petty, but the blush of embarrassment appearing on people’s cheeks at being caught in their condescension gave Florence immense pleasure.

  The woman, however, did not blush.

  As Florence extracted the most ostentatious of her Private Banking Platinum cards from a pink Hello Kitty plastic wallet, she said, “I hope that, at this price, I will have the pleasure of being able to talk to Mr. DeBok personally.”

  The woman smiled while not bothering to hide her contempt, took her card, and disappeared to the back of the shop.

  Moments la
ter Yohannes DeBok emerged.

  “Mademoiselle Mornay-Devereux,” the antique dealer exclaimed, handing back her card. “Such a pretty name. So when did you acquire your taste for shrews?”

  His greeting was so authentic and warm that Florence was caught off guard.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Crocidura balsamifera,” DeBok continued, gesturing towards the mummy, that his blonde colleague was busy removing from the shop window. “From the order of insectivores. A shrew. Two thousand four hundred years old. A species that has disappeared today, sadly. The Egyptians mummified all kinds of animals. Ibises, crocodiles, lions, cats. Many cats. Snakes too. I had a spitting cobra once,” he paused, smiling mischievously at the look of surprise on Florence’s face. “It went to a Croatian conductor. But like you, Mademoiselle, I have a fondness for shrews. Inexplicable, isn’t it?”

  “Inexplicable, yes.”

  Florence found herself at a loss. She had not expected DeBok to have such a natural, disarming charm. Her purpose, so clear only moments before, was now suddenly vague, as if seen through glasses that had been misted over.

  “Mr. DeBok,” she said, her brow creased with the effort of trying to pull herself back on track. “As I said to the lady, I work for the BBC.”

  “Congratulations. Outstanding journalism, mostly.”

  “Yes, thank you, we do our best. We are preparing a documentary about Nefertiti–”

  “And of course you would like to interview me because I am a central character in the story? Without me, our dear old Nefertiti would, today, be entombed in a Berlin landfill.”

  A broad and grateful smile broke out on Florence’s face, and relief loosened the tightness in her chest. “So you understand!”

  “I do, but unfortunately, I still have to disappoint you,” DeBok continued, his tone and bearing unaltered, if anything becoming smoother and more alluring. “Don’t take it personally, I have turned down interview requests from the most celebrated journalists in the world. I assure you this gives me no pride whatsoever. I don’t care for glory, on the contrary, I have everything to gain by staying in the dark. How, may I ask, did you find me?”

  “I guess we all have our secrets.” It was a weak reply, but Florence was caught out and late onto the defensive. Buying the mummy had only bought her so much time, and in the process, the tables had been turned: it was DeBok who was now asking the questions.

  “Why such a need for, you know, the dark?” Florence asked, trying to take back the initiative.

  “My work on the science of antiquities forgery leads me to rub shoulders with certain people, sometimes great artists, whose identity cannot be revealed. It is imperative that I, too, be anonymous, if I am to have any credibility in their world.”

  “But we could cover your face and mask your voice, nobody needs to know,” Florence suggested.

  DeBok smiled. “I'm not a murderer on the run, Florence. Can I call you Florence?”

  Before she could nod her ascent, he had turned to the blonde woman, who had appeared silently at his side with a box. “Here, all the papers are in order, Crocidura balsamifera is now yours.” He paused. “Take care, Florence. The ancient Egyptians considered birds to be representatives of light, but snakes, beetles and especially shrews, were all considered creatures of darkness.”

  With one hand, he reached out and opened the door for her, but with the other, he handed her a small embossed card, with gold lettering. As she took it from him, their fingers brushed against each other, and she had to repress a shudder at the icy cold of his touch.

  “The sale of Nefertiti's treasure will be held at Sotheby's Paris on October twenty-ninth. The day before, a friend of mine is organizing a cocktail party. I should be very honored to see you again, Florence.”

  Twilight was already falling as Florence stepped out into the street, not daring to look back as she heard the glass door close and the heavy bolts locking in sequence.

  Frustrated and in need of some time to decide what to do next, she decided to walk the few blocks to her hotel. As she turned the first corner, she almost collided with a fat man with a beard, dressed too warmly for the Cairo heat and wearing small glasses and a hat.

  She was sure she caught the scent of stone or earth or something mineral. But her mind was so preoccupied with the defeat in DeBok’s shop that she did not pay much attention, and carried on towards the sunset, her mummified shrew tucked under her arm.

  For a moment, Cairo seemed to regain its composure, but then the orange wind began to blow, whistling the lamentations of the desert.

  And the fat man in a dark trench coat was watching.

  22

  A few miles away, Franklin walked towards the agreed location, the Oudjat pendant in his pocket. He roamed the ochre alleys of the El-Arafa neighborhood, the medieval mosques, the strange houses, and the tiny colorful shops. At dusk, this part of Cairo, largely ignored by tourists, became almost phantasmagorical. Its magical atmosphere, the warm hospitality of its residents, the smiles of the children who played and scampered: he had come to know them very well. If asked, Franklin would have proudly said that he almost felt at home, despite the piles of rubbish and filthy poverty embedded within its walls.

  He had received a simple message: NC 6209.

  It was all the detective needed to understand that the meeting would be at 9 pm at the usual place. In English, they called it NC, or Northern Cemetery; but it was also known as the City of the Dead. Even though over half a million of its inhabitants were very much alive, the name derived from the enormous cemetery upon which it was built.

  Since the great earthquake of 1992, a lack of housing had pushed families to find shelter wherever they could, even if it meant invading the cemetery guardhouses or even colonizing the centuries-old mausoleums. The alleys of the great funerary city had seen life grow, shops develop around the cenotaphs, and swathes of linen stretch between its gravestones. In this neighborhood, which the locals called a slum, the dead invited the living to feast with them, continuing a tradition begun by their wealthier ancestors: the pharaohs themselves.

  Franklin passed by the magnificent Qaitbey Mosque and headed for the tiny lighting shop that was tucked in behind it.

  The owner greeted him warmly. He explained that his niece's wedding was taking place today; the family had all assembled at his brother's house, a few mausoleums further along the avenue. Naturally, his American friend was invited to the festivities. Franklin promised he would join later.

  Left alone, the detective entered the tomb; it served as a stall. He immediately recognized the dark silhouette at the table at the back, against the wall.

  “The FBI has dropped the case,” the voice in the shadow said.

  Franklin pulled out a wooden stool stuck among the lamps and sat down.

  “If Pryce had died anywhere else,” the voice went on, “the Bureau could have done something. But inside the pyramid of Cheops, the diplomatic pressure is just too much.”

  “Are you telling me that the FBI is just going wash their hands of it, because of a few journos?” Franklin’s frustration was evident, but his counterpart continued, unflustered.

  “You don’t understand. As far as the press is concerned, of course, we are on it. But between you, me and the Egyptian authorities, we gotta choose our battles, Hunter. There is a revolution raging here, a civil war in Syria, a mess in Darfur, and fundamentalism feeding recruits to all sides. At this very moment, three aid workers are sleeping in the US embassy because the Egyptian army’s idea of the difference between what is aid and what is treason seems to be shifting on a daily basis. At times like these, we have to keep a low profile. You of all people should know that.”

  The reproach stung, but Franklin said nothing.

  “So, yes, when Al-Shamy came to ask the ambassador to stop searching the pyramid, she said ‘Sure’.”

  “So you just let it go? To the Cairo police?” Franklin sighed.

  “It wasn’t up to us. Ther
e is no clear connection to drugs or terrorism and so it doesn’t fall within the jurisdiction of the Legat. We didn’t let anything go, because we didn’t have anything to begin with.”

  “But nothing’s been proven yet,” Franklin said. “If you just scratch the surface of this thing, you will find a network of organized crime. It’s absolutely within the Bureau's jurisdiction. You of all people should also know that.”

  “Hunter–”

  “One of the richest men in the world disappears in Mexico without a trace, and then turns up inside the pyramid in a room that no western Egyptologists or even the Supreme Council of Antiquities knew existed. To pull something like that off you need three things: money, influence and information. Those things don’t come together by themselves.”

  “Okay, so then this should amuse you.” A single, folded page came out of the shadows and slid across the table. “It’s a summary of the report from the Mexican police. We received it this morning.”

  Franklin squinted into the darkness as he scanned the page. He needn’t have bothered. “But it doesn’t say anything.”

  The shadow chuckled as Franklin tossed the paper back across the table. “The report itself runs at over a hundred pages. My source tells me that someone had to pay an awful lot for a report that says so little.”

  “Exactly! Other than a criminal network, or a religious sect, or both, I don’t see–”

  “I’m not saying that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind either. The analysis came back on the plants that were found with the bodies in Room X: lotus flowers. The pyramid, the flowers, all symbols of Egypt.”

  Franklin was silent for a moment. Out of habit he checked the front of the shop and let his gaze pass over the street beyond the front door. Night was falling on the sounds of happy children. Songs had begun to ring in the streets.

  “And of course, there is Tutankhamen,” the detective said at last, wryly.

  The shadow laughed. “Did you notice that I didn't even ask why you wanted to see me? That pharaoh is stuck to the sole of your shoe like a piece of gum, Hunter.”