“Yacoub. It’s about time someone back home paid attention to this guy. Did you see his press conference this morning?”
“Yes.”
“That’s was one clever publicity stunt. I reckon he’s been taking lessons from one of Trump’s advisers.”
“So you don’t think he’s likely to actually find anything in the Great Pyramid?”
“No idea. If you believed some of the crackpots who come in to us, you’d think there was an alien spaceship underneath the pyramid. The one that carried our DNA from some star in Orion’s belt.”
“You get a lot of crackpots?”
Fred raised his eyes. “More every year. What are you looking for on Yacoub?”
“Anything you know. Anything recent. Anything we might have missed.”
“You do know most of his money is from pharmaceuticals?”
Henry nodded.
“You also know his father was helped out by a Swiss bank, which had Nazi money filling its coffers at the end of the war.”
Henry nodded again.
“Well, then you know most of the scuttlebutt about him.”
“What do people think about his claim to have found the fountain of youth?”
“Anyone educated here thinks it’s a joke, but,” he leaned forward, “twenty-five percent of the population here is functionally illiterate, Henry, and more than that for females. They’re his biggest market. If he can show images on TV and in supermarkets of him with ancient Egyptian medicine pots and the pyramids behind him, he’ll make billions in the next few years.”
“So it doesn’t matter what’s in his face creams?”
“I’m sure it does. But he’ll have science and ancient medicine on his side if half of what he claims is true.” He smiled. “You do know what the ancient Egyptians used in half their medicines, Henry, don’t you? Did they teach you anything at that university you went to?”
“What did they teach you at yours, how to be a dick?” Fred’s reference to the university he’d attended in south London was typical of him. Kingston University didn’t have the cachet of Oxford or Cambridge, and anyone who went to one of those elite universities always took pleasure in casting subtle, or not so subtle digs at those who didn’t.
“I did classics, Henry, and one of the things we studied in the year we did ancient Egyptian civilization was the Cannibal Hymn.”
“The what?”
“The Cannibal Hymn. It’s one of the most famous ancient Egyptian texts from the 5th Dynasty, from about two thousand four hundred B.C.”
“What the hell has this got to do with Yacoub?”
“Well, if you were familiar with the ancient Egyptians you might put two and two together, Henry.”
“Go on. Don’t make a meal of it, Freddie.”
“The ancient Egyptians used body parts in their medicine. Powdered human skull, for instance, that was popular.”
“Yuck.”
“You may say that, but our own King Charles the second had a personal tincture, with chocolate and powdered human skull as its main ingredients. His physician claimed it was an ancient Egyptian royal remedy. And if you think that’s odd, did you know that in Germany blood from executed prisoners was passed around after the execution for people to drink. I believe that little ceremony went on into the twentieth century.”
“So there could be anything in this guy’s creams.”
“Anything. You know homeopathic remedies claim you should take a little of something related to what ails you. Well that’s the same thinking which explains why if you have a pain in your head you take powdered skull, or if you eat testicles you won’t need Viagra. It wouldn’t surprise me if he included minerals extracted from virgin’s blood to make older women young again.”
“Like vampires?”
“Exactly. A young count Dracula probably visited Cairo when he was a hostage at the Ottoman court. That’s where he got his taste for fresh blood. Nowadays we just give blood transfusions.”
“So, Yacoub really thinks he’s identified some ingredient that will make people young again.”
“That’s what I think. And he’s recently made all his packaging red, Henry. I wonder why?”
“So that’s all you have on him, some theory about his packaging, and what crap he’s putting in his creams? That’s all our Egyptian intelligence officer knows?”
“If you think we should all become cannibals, Henry, the crap in his creams is not a big deal, but there’s more to Yacoub than that.”
“Go on.”
“One of his competitors reckons Yacoub wants to be a new Saladin, to unify the Arab world and retake Jerusalem.”
“But he’s not a military leader.”
“You can buy a lot of things, if you have enough money, Henry.”
35
“I think Sean is in Cairo,” I said.
“Why?” said Aisha.
“I showed his picture to people who work at the Dar al'amal hospital. One of them recognized his face. Then he said he was too scared to tell me more because of the Brotherhood. He mentioned the symbol of a bird.”
“The bird is a common symbol in Egypt, Isabel. It does not just belong to the Brotherhood.”
“Who else uses it?”
Aisha took my hand and pulled me towards the far side of the room. There was a small statue of a man with a bird’s head inside a glass case.
“This is an early statue of Horus, god of the sky and hunting. He has the head of a falcon, as you see. He was born after the body parts of Osiris were put back together and his penis used to impregnate Isis. He is still revered in Egypt as the sky. The sun is his right eye. The moon his left.”
“But the Brotherhood was specifically mentioned in relation to Sean.”
“My uncle has a good relationship with the Brotherhood. If you ask him nicely he will ask them if they know anything about your husband.”
I didn’t reply. Perhaps the missing parts of the book we had found in Istanbul could be bait.
But could I be sure to get hold of them. Maybe it was time to call Henry.
“Is there somewhere I can go to have a shower? I badly need one.” I gripped Aisha’s arm.
She smiled, bowed. “Follow me.”
She led the way out of the room and down a flight of stairs to the floor below. This floor had a modern feel, all white paint and shiny pale wood flooring. It made me feel as if we were in London or even New York.
Aisha walked fast down a wide empty corridor and passed her hand over a security sensor.
“Put your hand here, Isabel. The sensor will take your palm print and allow you in and out whenever you need.”
I raised my hand to the black six inch square panel on the wall. The sensor blinked with a blue light across my palm. Aisha pushed the white door open. The room beyond was a guest bedroom. It had a large bed with a plump white duvet and pillow in the center of the room, a window overlooking the Nile, with ornate bars, which presumably were there to keep thieves out, heavy white curtains and a gold coffee table with red chairs around it to the left. It was way bigger than my hotel room.
Aisha pointed at a door on the right. “The bathroom is through here.” She bowed, left the room.
I had a look around. The temperature in the room was controlled with an electronic screen beside the door back out to the corridor. I pressed a button on the shiny black panel. A large screen TV began to lower itself from the roof. The TV was on a single stalk with a ball at the end, which meant you could rotate it and watch TV from the bed of the coffee table.
I let it come down, turned it to face me, hunted for the remote control. I found it in a drawer under the coffee table beside a gilt edged guide to Cairo, a copy of a Victorian era guide, but updated to include the new museums and metro.
I headed for the bathroom, stripped off and stood inside the glass walled walk in shower area. It would be nice to be staying here, not in the hotel. The bathroom even
had a scent to it. If only Sean was here to enjoy it with me.
I looked in the gilt edged mirror above the sink, imagined what it would be like if Sean was waiting for me in the room outside. I closed my eyes. The ache in my heart was growing again. It was always there these days, waiting. No matter how many times I distracted myself. All it took was for me to be alone, to imagine him with me, to close my eyes and tears wanted to come again.
Why did this have to happen to us?
But I knew that was a stupid question. Many good people got taken early. No one knew why.
A buzz sounded from my bag. Someone had messaged me on Facebook. I knew its distinctive noise. It was my sister, maybe, or one of those nice people in the bereavement group I’d joined on Facebook. Every time I thought about the group I felt a pang of guilt. I’d barely participated, after looking through it that first time. There were so many sad stories. So many servicemen’s wives. So many widowers with tales of cancer I couldn’t bear to think about.
I’d put my lack of involvement down to not being ready to accept what was now my story, too. But I knew I still had a lot to learn about dealing with my own grief, especially when it grabbed me tight, like a shroud around my soul.
I picked my smartphone from my bag, checked the message on the home screen. It was from the Institute where Sean used to work. They wanted to know if I was okay, if I was ready to meet with someone.
I knew what they meant, and who they’d send: Dr. Beresford-Ellis. He’d be all sympathy and charm, offering buy outs for Sean’s shares in the Institute, and asking for advice on when we should hold a service for him, even though his body had not even been recovered.
There was another message too. A voice-mail. Could it be the taxi driver? Had he found out something? I pressed the message icon.
It took about thirty seconds for the voicemail to play. But it wasn’t the taxi driver’s voice that came on the line, it was a soft American accent, and for a split second, as I heard the voice say my name, I thought it was Sean calling me. It felt as if everything inside me was falling, until the voice carried on for a few seconds more and I knew it was Mike calling me from upstairs.
“Just checking you’re okay,” he said. This was why I liked him, had been willing to go wherever he suggested. His accent and his attitude were so like Sean’s, it was weird.
I put the phone down on a marble topped table at the other end of the bathroom and stepped into the shower.
The glass walls of the shower room steamed up fast. I put my head back, stood in the stream of warm water as it sluiced over me. Sean. Oh Sean. What the hell happened to you? Nobody could ever replace you. No man was half the person you are.
A knock sounded from the bathroom door. As my mouth widened in alarm, I watched the door open towards me.
36
The diamond tipped drill cut into the granite with a loud grinding noise. Xena had goggles on, and had the drill speed set to slow, to ensure pieces of granite didn’t clog up the bit, but it meant slower progress than she’d hoped. And this was their first hole.
One of Yacoub’s site workers was holding the drill. He’d been recruited from a gold mine Yacoub owned in the Nubian desert in the south east of the country, near the Red Sea. It was only the second gold mine in Egypt, but it was useful not only for the cash flow it generated, but also for the quality of loyal workers it produced.
The man held the Bosch drilling machine vertical, sending it directly down into the granite floor stone. The fact that the floor stone had moved meant there was every likelihood there was a space beneath it. The fact that they had no permission for drilling didn’t concern her. They had hours to find out what was under this stone, before the Egyptian government took back full control of the chamber.
The first drill hole was in one corner. The plan was to drill a hole in each corner to weaken the likely support for the stone, which held it in place. If necessary, further holes would be drilled along each side. After that further pressure would be applied to the floor stone. They needed to work fast. And they needed distractions in Cairo to keep all eyes away from the Great Pyramid.
Xena touched the arm of the man who held the drill and spoke in the Bedawai dialect to him, the dialect used by Bedouins from the Red Sea coast area where he came from.
He pulled the drill bit out of the hole. She picked up a Bosch hand held suction device and turned it on. The noise was like a small airplane taking off. She put the head of the device over the drill hole. There was a clattering noise as all the granite bits went into the steel drum at the back of the device. She flicked the switch, turned it off. The noise in the King’s Chamber abated.
She peered down into the drill hole. It was six inches deep.
It was time to drill a new hole. She pointed at the mark she had scratched in one of the other corners. She had also drawn an arrow in the center of the block. There was no way of being sure if the sign she’d been taught about would work on this block, but it might. She’d seen the symbol work, both bringing good luck and solving puzzles like the one she was faced with now, how to get behind this floor block. She signaled to continue drilling with a downward motion of her forefinger.
The drill bit cut into the granite with a high pitched growl. Pieces of granite popped into the air. She reached towards the man holding the drill, held his upper arm.
“Slowly, Mohammad. We are nearly finished.”
He pulled back a little, smiled at her.
She returned the smile, leaned towards him.
His eyebrows went up and he blinked with happiness.
Xena pulled out a cigarette, took one out, lit it, blew the smoke in his direction. It was too easy to get sheep like this one to do what he’d been told. Soon enough the whole world would appreciate the work that she was doing, the sacrifices that had been made.
Yacoub would facilitate the Goddess returning, with his cures for women and his anti-aging products.
The noise of the drill changed. It shuddered in his hand. She put her hand on Mohammad’s arm. “Stop,” she said in Arabic. “We need new drill bits. If you get them I will reward you.” She stuck her tongue out at him. His eyes widened in anticipation. His gaze flicked to her cleavage.
“When you have finished staring at me, go to the Yacoub building and get me the package waiting for me in the security hut.”
His head shook as he stepped back. There had been gossip about a demon security manager Yacoub used, but this was the first time he’d met her.
37
The building in the poor Northern suburb of Cairo on Sharia Shubra had a red drop symbol above its door. It had been opened a few months before and was known by the name bayt alddam, the house of blood.
The only people who were allowed to sell blood to the clinic were virgin girls, aged between fourteen and twenty-one. The mothers who brought their daughters here had to provide a doctor’s certificate of their daughter’s virginity, signed in the past twenty-four hours by an approved doctor, and their daughter’s identity card to prove their age.
The locals were happy with the clinic. It was bringing money into the area and the clinic’s relationship with a famous private hospital in the south of the city reassured them as to where the blood was going. After the January 25th revolution, which overthrew ex-President Mubarak in 2011, private blood donation services were set up in other parts of the city, but not up here in the north. The fact that the donation center was open only one day a week and then only for a few hours suited the local shopkeepers, and the koshary, bread and tea vendors never objected to the extra business.
The locals assumed the restrictive rules for blood donation were simply one of the reasons the Dar al'amal hospital had such a high success rate for curing its patients and vowed to go there, if they could afford it.
That Saturday the clinic was closed. The door was firmly shut and there was no one waiting outside. Until a police jeep pulled up and four uniformed officers got out, went to the
door and began banging on it, and a few seconds later broke the door down.
What happened next was caught on camera by two passers-by equipped with smartphones. The first photo showed the only person who was in the building being led away with his head held almost between his knees. The second showed the moment a filing cabinet, which had been dragged into the street, was set alight.
Most people in the neighborhood made no objection to the clinic closing. It had been said by some that the clinic brought bad luck to the area, because no Imam had endorsed it.
38
I turned my body away from the door, reached for the water, turned it off. That was when I heard the knocking again. This time a reedy voice called my name, incorrectly. “Miss Ryan. Miss Ryan.”
“Who is it?” I shouted.
“You must come.”
“Why?”
“You must come.”
I was clearly not going to get a better explanation. I picked up my phone from the table. If anyone was tracking me, Henry, for instance, he’d need me with it to have any chance of helping me.
Someone was shuffling outside the door. I pulled one of the giant fluffy white towels around myself and jerked the door open.
An old man, probably long past being interested in seeing me naked, bowed. He had a red fez on and a spotless white uniform. He spoke as he held his head down.
“Sorry to disturb, Miss Ryan, but we must all go to the basement emergency room right away. Please come quickly.” He raised his head enough to look me in the eye. His eyeballs were veined with red, as if he had some disease. He didn’t blink either.
“Why? What the hell is going on?” I walked to the black window shutters and peered out. A gloom was descending over the city as night approached. Strings of light went from building to building opposite us, but below cars were moving and there were no crowds gathering.
“Earthquake, Miss Ryan.” He looked at his watch and almost jumped. “We are late. Please come.”
There was such as plaintive tone to his voice I didn’t want to refuse.
The Cairo Puzzle Page 11
