The Spoils of Egypt

by Michael Pearce

‘Christ knows! It’s that bloody woman again!’

  ‘Well, I’m not sitting here all morning,’ Owen pointed out.

  ‘Sorry, old chap, it’ll have to be some other time.’

  Clayton rushed off.

  Owen sat for a moment nursing his wrath.

  ‘Can you handle this?’ he said to one of the clerks. The clerk glanced at it.

  ‘Sorry, effendi,’ he said. ‘It’s a policy decision.’

  Owen got to his feet.

  ‘I’m making a policy decision, too,’ he said. ‘Tell Clayton he can bloody well come to me next time. That’s if he wants to see me.’

  He stalked out. On the way he passed the door to the other office. Inside he saw Miss Skinner. She was surrounded by files and perspiring Finance people.

  ‘Surely you have records?’ she was saying.

  ‘I think they may be at Alexandria,’ one of the perspirers said.

  ‘May be?’ said Miss Skinner cuttingly. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘They’re probably still in the Douane. Things get delayed,’ said the man sulkily.

  Miss Skinner turned some papers over.

  ‘These are dated three years ago,’ she pointed out. ‘Still in the Douane?’

  Serves the so-and-so right, thought Owen with grim satisfaction, and continued on past. He was just going down the stairs when a thought struck him. He hesitated, thought again and then retraced his steps.

  ‘Why, it’s Captain Owen!’ said Miss Skinner, beaming. ‘Are we on the same errand, I wonder? Checking the duty files on antiquities exports?’

  It had never occurred to him.

  ‘As a matter of fact—’ Then he recovered quickly. ‘But I see you’ve got ahead of me this morning!’

  ‘It’s the obvious thing to do, isn’t it? You can see at a glance what antiquities have been exported and how much duty has been paid. And do you know what I’ve found?’

  She looked pleased.

  ‘There has been a two hundred and sixty per cent increase in the volume in the last twelve months. There! I expect you have already spotted it but it came as a surprise to me. I suspected there had been an increase but not on this scale!’

  ‘That is, actually, the very thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

  Miss Skinner looked at her watch.

  ‘I think I have time for a cup of coffee,’ she said. ‘It will give the people here a chance to find some more files for me. They seem to need,’ she added, ‘plenty of time.’

  He took her round the corner to a little Arab café.

  ‘I wonder if I can enlist your aid, Miss Skinner? The Government is, as you know, determined to tackle the question of the flight abroad of Egypt’s national treasures—’

  ‘The Spoils of Egypt,’ said Miss Skinner, nodding her head approvingly.

  ‘In doing so, however, it does not wish to jeopardize its excellent relations with other countries. Particularly America—’

  ‘Since that’s where the money comes from.’

  ‘Quite. Unfortunately, something has cropped up which may send the wrong signals to your compatriots, Miss Skinner, and I wondered if by any chance we could count on your assistance in persuading the American public of our good intentions.’

  ‘My uncle, perhaps—’

  ‘Especially as it concerns something you know about.’

  He told her where things stood on the Parker prosecution.

  ‘The Government might, you see, wish to take up the issue of negligence, but would not wish to do so if it suggested to the community abroad that it was conducting an anti-foreign campaign.’

  ‘I see your point.’

  She was obviously considering the matter. Then she seemed to make up her mind.

  ‘I will do what I can. All the more so as I feel a particular concern for those two poor men. A personal responsibility, you might say. Yes, you can count on me.’

  Owen started to express his thanks, but she interrupted him.

  ‘And in return,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm, ‘you can do something for me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon I am visiting a friend. A private commission. When I get back I shall ring you and you can forget about it. If I do not ring you by four, will you please go to my hotel and there on my escritoire you will find a sealed envelope which will tell you where I have been. There! That’s it.’

  ‘But, Miss Skinner,’ said Owen, bewildered, ‘what then do you want me to do?’

  ‘I am sure, Captain Owen, that, should the occasion arise, you will know very well what to do.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘The Expedition to Punt?’ said Monsieur Peripoulin wrathfully. ‘Over my dead body!’

  ‘Over your dead body it’s going to have to be, then,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve got a deal.’

  ‘Deal? I know nothing about deals.’

  ‘It’s time you learned, then. We had this before we started. We wouldn’t have started otherwise.’

  ‘What is this “deal”?’ Peripoulin asked Owen. ‘I don’t understand. I know nothing about deals.’

  They were at the Museum. Around them on the floor were the spoils from Der el Bahari. Most had already been valued and packed away again in large wooden crates. Only the façade, complete now,—Owen had checked that the leopard cub was there—remained to be packed.

  And valued.

  ‘Not something I can do,’ the under-keeper had said, and had fetched Monsieur Peripoulin.

  ‘What is this deal?’ Owen said to Parker.

  ‘When we applied for the licence to excavate,’ said Parker, ‘we were given to understand that we could retain whatever we found.’

  ‘No.’ Owen shook his head. ‘That couldn’t have been the case. There’s always a reservation. The Museum has the right to retain items of outstanding historical significance.’

  ‘Sure, I understand that. If you find another Cow of Hathor or something, that goes to the Museum.’

  ‘The Expedition to the Land of Punt,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin. ‘That is of outstanding historical significance.’

  Parker shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s all interesting.’

  ‘This is exceptional.’

  ‘Up to a point. The fact is,’ said Parker, ‘you’ve got to let us have something. Otherwise it wouldn’t be worth doing.’

  ‘But not the Land of Punt,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin firmly.

  ‘I tell you, we’ve got a deal.’

  ‘It says you can export the Land of Punt?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ Parker admitted, ‘but—’

  ‘This deal,’ pursued Monsieur Peripoulin, ‘it is in writing?’

  ‘I dare say it’s written down somewhere,’ said Parker off-handedly.

  ‘O-oh là-là! I know about deals like that.’

  ‘This one’s kosher,’ said Parker. ‘It’s with the Ministry.’

  ‘The Département? Well, that is strange. For I am in the Département and I have not heard of any such “deal”.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ said Parker. ‘It was confidential.’

  ‘Ah? It was confidential? So confidential that even I, Peripoulin, have not heard of it! That is strange indeed. Well,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin, ‘until I do hear of it, I shall assume it does not exist. The façade remains here!’

  He stalked off.

  It took Parker a moment or two to recover. Then he exploded.

  ‘You can’t do that! You can’t do that! I’ve got a deal!’

  For a moment it seemed he was about to charge after him.

  ‘That’s the most valuable piece of the lot!’ he shouted.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin, and disappeared into his office.

  Owen put a restraining han
d on Parker’s arm. Parker shook it off.

  ‘What does he think he’s doing? I’ve got a deal!’

  ‘Have you?’ said Owen.

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Parker quietened down.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I sure have. You don’t think we’d move without one, do you? There’s somebody else who’s interested—’ He broke off. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s bound to be others. But we got first strike. That was the deal.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound a Department of Antiquities sort of deal.’

  ‘Well, it was.’

  ‘Are you sure it was with the Department? Who did you talk to?’

  Parker hesitated.

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’ He hesitated again. ‘As a matter of fact, we didn’t approach them directly ourselves. We did it through people with influence—’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Owen sceptically.

  ‘No, really,’ Parker insisted. ‘We wanted to make sure, you see. We knew there was somebody else after it, another consortium. We wanted to be sure we got it. So we went to the top.’

  ‘Peripoulin’s the top.’

  ‘No, no. Higher.’

  ‘Who?’

  Parker was silent.

  ‘You’ve been sold a pup,’ said Owen.

  Parker shook his head.

  ‘No, I haven’t. Don’t think I haven’t done this sort of thing before. I know what to look out for.’

  ‘Well,’ said Owen, ‘Peripoulin’s not going to change his mind.’

  Parker looked at him.

  ‘Can’t he be made to?’

  ‘Not by me, if that’s what you’re asking. It would have to be by the people you made the deal with, the people at the top. If they really are at the top.’

  ‘Well, they are,’ said Parker.

  ‘Why don’t you call on the services of your friend again? The man with influence?’

  A little to his surprise, Parker took him seriously.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  He went off to find a phone. Owen thought for a moment of eavesdropping, but it was too late. Then something else occurred to him.

  He made his way along the corridor to the main office of the Museum. He wanted to make a phone call himself.

  Abu Bakir answered it.

  ‘The Department of Antiquities?’ he said. ‘But I’m in Finance. Why ask me?’

  ‘I thought you might have friends there.’

  There was a little silence.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

  Owen went back to the room with the crates. He found two people looking at the façade: Francesca, the Italian girl from Alexandria, and Tomas, the Copt.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you two knew each other.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Francesca. ‘I know you, too. But I’ve known Tomas for even longer.’

  Tomas smiled politely.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve been able to locate the leopard cub,’ Owen said to him.

  ‘Leopard cub?’ said Francesca, puzzled.

  Owen pointed the fragment out to her.

  ‘It got parted from the others.’

  Francesca raised an eyebrow.

  ‘At Heraq. You remember.’

  ‘I see,’ said Francesca, and laughed.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Tomas.

  ‘It certainly was,’ said Francesca. ‘It would have reduced the value of the façade considerably.’

  ‘What is the value of the façade?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Impossible to say on a thing like that. I expect the Museum’s put a value on it, though.’

  ‘I think there’s some difficulty about that.’

  ‘Oh. I see! Alphonse.’

  ‘Alphonse?’

  ‘Peripoulin.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to let it go?’

  ‘Can you blame him?’

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘I’ve seen so many nice things leave Egypt,’ she said.

  ‘The Land of Punt, I would have thought, was special. Unique. Priceless.’

  ‘Not priceless,’ the girl corrected him. ‘And not even a particularly high price as these things go. It would only be of interest to museums. What really fetches the money are smaller things—things that would fit into a private collection.’

  ‘Like the Cow of Hathor?’

  ‘That, thank goodness, is safe here. But yes, like the Cow of Hathor.’

  ‘I like the Land of Punt. I hope Peripoulin wins.’

  Tomas, who had been standing quietly by, stirred a little.

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘we ought to get on with it. Only we can’t really, not until the business about the façade is settled.’

  ‘You could take the others,’ Tomas suggested.

  ‘I suppose I could. And come back for the façade. I’ll be here again next week.’

  ‘Why are you taking them?’ asked Owen.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why you and not Tomas?’

  ‘Tomas is just a contractor. Well, not just. It’s a skilled business transporting these. But his work finishes when he gets it to the Museum. After that, I take over.’

  ‘It’s different,’ said Tomas. ‘The first part is hauling and carrying. The second part is forms.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said the girl. ‘Coming from Italy, I know all about forms. And bureaucracy.’

  Tomas gave her a sheaf of papers.

  ‘It’s all here,’ he said, glancing round at the crates and then, surreptitiously, at Owen. ‘Now.’

  ‘Right, then. I’ll get the porters to move it.’

  She walked briskly out. Tomas shook hands politely with Owen.

  ‘What are you doing now? Going back to Der el Bahari?’

  ‘For the next load,’ said Tomas.

  Francesca reappeared with a string of porters.

  ‘These, and these,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got some more stuff next door. From other customers.’

  ‘All to the depot?’

  ‘To the depot. We have a small warehouse,’ she explained to Owen. ‘We sort the things out there, in Alexandria, before taking them along to Customs.’

  ‘This one?’ asked the leader of the porters, pointing to a large package touched up with gilt paint, which almost blocked the doorway.

  ‘My goodness, yes. Be careful! It’s a nice one. And don’t get it mixed up with these.’

  The man bore it off. It wasn’t long before all the crates had been cleared away. Only the façade was left, lying pieced together jigsaw-like on the floor.

  ‘I’ll leave you to guard it,’ said Francesca, coming to shake hands.

  ‘You’re returning to Alexandria?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Tonight I am giving myself a treat. Cavalleria. I don’t suppose…?’

  ‘I am already engaged to go there. But perhaps at the interval?’

  The telephone in Peripoulin’s office gave a long ring. After a moment Peripoulin emerged slowly. Parker came into the room.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he said to Peripoulin triumphantly.

  ‘No,’ said Peripoulin. ‘Not satisfied.’

  He came over to the façade and stood looking down at it.

  ‘Well?’

  Peripoulin ignored him and addressed himself to Owen.

  ‘I have been asked to put a value on this,’ he said. ‘I do so: one million pounds.’

  ***

  Zeinab was unaccountably out of sorts at the opera that evening: and that was before they met Francesca.

  The Opera House had been built by the Khedive Ismail as part of his lavish preparations for the Grand Opening of the Suez Canal. Inside, all was crimson
and cream and gold. The boxes, most of which were harem-style, screened to preserve the harem ladies from the gaze of the licentious, were fitted out with red brocade. And one of them was the special perquisite of the Mamur Zapt.

  When, on taking up his post, Owen had first discovered that he possessed this private privilege, he had been surprised and touched. What an imaginative, what a civilized way of rewarding service, he had thought!

  Of course, it was nothing of the kind. The Khedive Ismail had been determined to make his venture a success and one way of doing it was to guarantee the attendance of the elite. All his Ministers had boxes and woe betide them if they did not attend. The Mamur Zapt, the Chief of the Khedive’s Secret Police, was there in person to make sure that they did.

  Cultural standards had declined so much, of course, with the coming of the British that this was no longer one of Owen’s duties. And the Mamur Zapt’s box might have gone forever unused had he not discovered, when he met Zeinab, that this was about the one part of the Mamur Zapt’s office that she took seriously.

  Since then they had been assiduous attenders and Owen had come to the conclusion that the Welsh, the Arabs and the Italians had significant things in common, most notably a taste for emotional drama which other, colder nations—the English, for example—would call facile.

  Normally, Zeinab succumbed to the spell the moment she entered the House. This evening, though, she seemed to surrender herself to the music slowly and almost unwillingly.

  ‘Feeling all right?’ asked Owen solicitously.

  If she was, this soon altered when they went downstairs at the interval and Owen greeted effusively this tall, beautiful, elegant, European girl.

  ‘We met at Alexandria,’ Owen explained.

  ‘Oh!’ said Zeinab.

  ‘So nice to see you yesterday,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Yesterday?’ said Zeinab, with raised eyebrows.

  ‘At the Museum.’

  ‘In Cairo too, then.’

  ‘My work takes me there,’ Francesca explained.

  ‘Work?’ said Zeinab.

  This was strange and suspicious. Women did not work. Not unless they were peasants. And this girl was plainly not a peasant.

  ‘I run an antiquities business.’

  ‘That’s how we came to meet,’ Owen explained.

  ‘Oh? Since when have you been interested in antiquities?’