The Moses Stone

by James Becker

  'That worked,' she said. 'Let's try this one.'

  She carefully composed a different set of characters – – and input that. The system correctly translated the Aramaic word as 'cubit'.

  'OK, now we're cooking.' She looked up at Bronson and smiled. 'Let's make a start on the Cairo tablet.'

  31

  'Did you get it?' Alexander Dexter asked, as Izzat Zebari – now wearing Western-style clothes instead of his usual jellaba – sat down opposite him in the lounge of the midpriced hotel near the centre of Casablanca. It was early evening. Dexter had flown from London to Rabat that morning, and then driven down to the city in response to Zebari's summons.

  It had been a blisteringly hot day and the evening wasn't much cooler. Dexter wished he'd thought to bring even lighter-weight clothes than the jacket and slacks he was wearing.

  Zebari glanced around the room at the handful of other residents and guests. Then he looked back at Dexter.

  'No, my friend, I did not get it.'

  Apart from the unwelcome news that he had failed to achieve his objective, something else in Zebari's voice and manner bothered Dexter.

  'There's a "but", isn't there?' he asked.

  Zebari nodded. 'Yes, there is a "but", as you put it. A big "but". The cost of trying to recover the object was much higher than I had expected.'

  'How much higher?' Dexter asked, guessing that Zebari might be trying a serious shake-down, even though he'd failed in his mission.

  'Probably more than you can afford. The man with me was shot down and captured as we tried to escape. I think we can assume that his subsequent death – and I've no doubt that he is dead – was neither quick nor painless.'

  'Oh, Jesus,' Dexter muttered. He knew the world of stolen and smuggled antiques was pretty rough, but he hadn't expected anything like that. 'All you had to do was steal a bloody clay tablet. How could you possibly screw that up so badly?'

  Zebari's voice was ice cold. 'One of the problems we faced, Dexter, was that the man who possessed the tablet pretends to be a businessman, but in reality he's nothing more than a gangster. His house was fitted with alarms, which we disabled, but he'd installed an infra-red sensor inside the display cabinet, and we didn't see that until I reached inside it. And by then, of course, the alarms had gone off. I managed to scramble over the wall and get away, but my companion wasn't so lucky. His name, should you be interested, was Amer Hammad. He was a man I've known and worked with for over ten years, and I called him a friend.'

  'But you didn't get the tablet? You know I don't pay for failure.'

  'You're not listening, Dexter. I told you that I didn't get it, simply because it wasn't there. And there are other . . . complications. Quite apart from Hammad's death, that is.'

  'Like what?' Dexter demanded.

  'The man who owned the tablet has very good contacts inside the Moroccan police force. A number of officers are believed to be on his payroll.'

  'So?'

  'So it probably won't take him too long to discover Hammad's identity.'

  'What will happen to his body?' Dexter asked.

  'He'll probably stick it in the back of a jeep, drive a few miles out into the desert and dump it. The jackals and the vultures will take care of it. But whatever method of disposal he chooses, Hammad's corpse will simply vanish. The point is that if this man manages to identify me as the other burglar, I've got real problems.'

  'So that's why we're meeting here in Casablanca instead of up in Rabat?'

  'Exactly. I need to get out of Morocco, quickly, and for at least a year. And that costs money, serious money.'

  'OK, I understand the position you're in, and I'm sorry. But I told you I don't pay for failure.'

  Dexter shifted slightly in his seat, as if preparing to stand up and leave, but Zebari stilled him with a gesture.

  'We did get something,' he said. 'A piece of card.'

  'Is that all?'

  'Yes, but it has a good picture of the tablet on it, and the story of its origins. Does your client want the tablet itself, or just a copy of the inscription that's on it?'

  Dexter looked at him appraisingly. 'What do you mean?'

  'What I say. Some people talk, other people listen. The word is that this clay tablet is worthless, but the inscription on it is priceless. It's a kind of treasure map, or a part of one, anyway. Now, if your client really just wants this lump of fired clay for his collection of relics, our conversation here is probably over. But if all he wants is a picture of the inscription – a much better picture than the one you sent me – then I hope he has deep pockets, because it's going to cost him plenty to get his hands on the card.'

  Dexter sighed. 'OK, let's cut to the chase. How much do you want?'

  Zebari took a slip of paper out of his pocket and passed it across the table.

  Dexter picked it up and looked at the number written on it. 'Ten thousand? Ten thousand pounds?' he asked, keeping his voice low, and Zebari nodded. 'You have just got to be joking. Ten grand for a picture of a clay tablet? My client will never agree.'

  'Then neither you nor your client will ever see the card. It's your choice, Dexter. I've given you my first, last and totally non-negotiable offer. If you don't agree, I'll walk out of here and you'll never see me again. I have friends who'll help me.'

  For a few seconds the two men stared at each other, then Dexter nodded. 'Wait here. I'll call my client and see what he wants to do. I'll need a few minutes.'

  'Make it quick, Dexter. I'm running out of time.'

  Dexter left the hotel, walked a short distance down the street, then pulled out his mobile phone. He relayed to Charlie Hoxton what Zebari had told him, and finished by telling him the price the Moroccan was demanding. Or, to be completely accurate, he told him Zebari wanted £15,000 for the card – he had his commission to think of, after all.

  When he told Hoxton the price, Dexter held the phone away from his ear, which was just as well. The stream of invective being emitted at full volume from the earpiece might have damaged his hearing. When the tirade had diminished, he cautiously replaced the phone.

  'So I'll tell him it's no deal then?'

  'I didn't say that, Dexter. Will he negotiate?'

  'He told me he wouldn't, and I believe him. He's deep in the shit because of what happened, and selling this picture of the tablet is about the only way he has of getting out. And he wants to know right now. When I go back into the hotel, either it's a deal at fifteen or he walks. Those are our choices.'

  'Thieving bastard,' Hoxton said angrily. 'He does know the price he's demanding is totally bloody extortionate, doesn't he?'

  'Oh, yes, definitely. He also told me that the inscription on the tablet appeared to be part of a treasure map.'

  Hoxton was quiet for a few seconds, then spoke again. 'OK. Tell him it's a deal. I've already wired money to the account we arranged in Rabat. I'll authorize you to draw fifteen grand from it tomorrow.'

  Slightly surprised by Hoxton's response, Dexter slipped the phone into his pocket and walked back into the hotel lounge.

  'Will you take eight?' he asked. There was no harm in trying a little haggling.

  Zebari shook his head and stood up.

  'OK, OK,' Dexter said. 'We'll buy the card for ten. The money will be in Rabat tomorrow. I presume you'll want it in cash? In dirhams?'

  'Of course I want it in dirhams. Do you think I'm some kind of idiot? Call me on this after nine tomorrow' – he wrote a mobile number on the piece of paper he'd given to Dexter – 'when you've got the money. Then we'll meet somewhere and do the exchange.'

  Without another word, Zebari stood up and walked out of the hotel.

  32

  At eight thirty the next morning Dexter walked through the doors of the Bank Al-Maghrib on Avenue Mohammed V in Rabat. Fifteen minutes later he left the premises, his transactions concluded. Five thousand pounds of the money Charlie Hoxton had wired to Morocco was on its way to a numbered account in a small and discreet bank in Lich
tenstein, where it would earn minimal interest for him but be entirely safe.

  The previously smooth line of Dexter's tweed jacket was now marred by two bulges. The wads of dirham notes in his inside pockets – each the equivalent of £5,000 sterling – were bulky, and he wanted to get the meeting with Zebari over with as quickly as possible and get home to the calm and safety of his antique shop in Petworth. He'd never liked Morocco as a country; he liked its inhabitants even less.

  He walked briskly along Avenue Mohammed V until he found a café that looked reasonably clean, pulled out a chair from a vacant table and ordered mint tea – Arabic coffee was far too strong and bitter for his taste. He checked his watch: eight fifty.

  At nine exactly he pulled out his mobile and dialled the number Zebari had given him.

  The Moroccan answered almost at once. 'Dexter?'

  'Yes. I've got what you wanted.'

  'You're in Rabat?'

  'Yes.'

  'Get yourself onto Avenue Hassan II and go east along it, heading towards the estuary. When you get almost to the end, just before it bends to the south-east, turn right into the Rue de Sebta. Walk down there and take a seat in the first café you come to on the right-hand side of the road. Sit outside, where I'll be able to see you. Got that?'

  'Yes.' Dexter studied his street map of Rabat. Avenue Hassan II actually crossed Avenue Mohammed V, and the rendezvous Zebari had specified was only about a mile away. 'I'll be there in twenty minutes,' he said.

  Half a mile away, Izzat Zebari snapped his mobile closed and nodded to himself in satisfaction. He trusted Dexter about as far as he could throw him, but he had the Englishman over a barrel, and both of them knew it. Dexter's client was obviously desperate to get his hands on anything relating to the clay tablet and Zebari was fairly sure he wouldn't try anything underhand. But if Dexter did try to gain possession of the card without handing over the money, Zebari guessed that his Walther PPK automatic pistol would provide all the additional persuasion he'd need to complete the transaction.

  Zebari glanced around him as he stood up in the hotel lobby where he'd been waiting. Satisfied, he walked out of the building, squinting in the sudden glare of the sunshine.

  He glanced up and down Rue Abd el Myumen before pulling a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and striding away towards the Rue de Sebta.

  About fifty yards behind Zebari, two men dressed in jeans and T-shirts stood up from the café table where they'd been sitting and began to follow him, chatting to each other as they walked. One man held a small mobile phone close to his right ear.

  In the back seat of a black Mercedes saloon that was even then cutting through the traffic towards the Rue Abd el Myumen from the south side of Rabat, the tall man with the frozen face was urging his driver to go ever faster. He listened on his phone to the reports from his two men. It wouldn't be long now before he recovered what was rightfully his.

  The traffic along Avenue Hassan II, which was also the main N1 road that laterally bisected Rabat, wasn't anything like as bad as Dexter had anticipated. That, and the fact that he managed to flag down a cab within seconds of leaving the café, meant it took him less than ten minutes to reach the rendezvous.

  He wasn't sure whether Zebari had chosen the café deliberately, or whether he'd just picked a fairly busy road and assumed that there would be a café somewhere along it. Either way, once he paid off the cab and turned into Rue de Sebta, he saw the white awning and collection of tables and chairs only twenty or so yards in front of him. Dexter glanced round when he reached the café but saw no sign of the man he was meeting. He ordered yet another mint tea and prepared to wait.

  Five minutes later Izzat Zebari pulled out the chair opposite Dexter and sat down. He looked furtive and harassed, glancing all around him before he spoke, but at that hour there were few people in the café and only a handful of pedestrians. Two young men who'd been walking along the street behind Zebari carried on past the café without a backwards glance, deep in conversation.

  'You've got the money?' Zebari demanded, as the waiter placed a cup of thick black coffee in front of him and moved away.

  Dexter nodded. 'And you've brought the card?' he asked.

  Zebari nodded in turn.

  Dexter reached inside his jacket, pulled out two thick envelopes secured with elastic bands and slid them across the table. 'Ten thousand, in dirhams, as we agreed.'

  Zebari mirrored Dexter's action, producing an envelope and placing it on the table. Each man reached out and took what the other had offered. Zebari opened the envelopes and ran the end of his thumb over the crisp banknotes they contained, riffling them like two packs of cards, then swiftly slid them into the pockets of his jacket. Dexter unsealed the brown envelope and slid out the piece of card. He stared at what was printed on it.

  'Jesus,' Dexter said after a few moments. 'This is nothing like as good as I was expecting. The picture's a lot smaller than I'd hoped, and the inscription's still not very clear.' He tossed the card across the table. 'I'm not satisfied. The deal's off. Give me back the money.'

  Zebari shook his head. 'This Walther in my pocket says the deal is still on, Dexter.' He pulled the butt of a small semi-automatic pistol into view. 'Think about it. I've really got nothing to lose.' He stood up, tossed a few dirhams on the table, and walked away, back down the street.

  There's a slight kink in the Rue de Sebta, where a sidestreet links it with the Rue de Bured. The black Mercedes reached that point at almost precisely the same moment as Zebari.

  The heavy car squealed to a halt half on the pavement, its long bonnet blocking Zebari's way forward as two other men closed in on him from behind.

  Zebari saw the car swing towards him and immediately guessed the identity of the vehicle's owner. Right then he knew he was in trouble, deep trouble. He swung round, turning to run, but two men were right in front of him, the same two who'd walked past the café only minutes earlier. Both were clearly ready to intercept him no matter which way he went. Behind him he heard the unmistakable sounds of car doors opening.

  Pulling the Walther from his pocket, Zebari snapped off a quick and barely aimed shot at the men in front of him, forcing them to duck. But they too were drawing weapons. Zebari's only escape route was across the road, through the traffic – and that's where he ran.

  He dodged around a slow-moving truck and sprinted for the pavement on the opposite side of the road. He'd almost reached it when he felt a tremendous punch in the centre of his back. The echo of the shot reverberated from the buildings all around, and he tumbled to the ground, all feeling gone from his legs. He dropped the pistol, which landed with a clatter well out of his reach.

  Almost casually, the tall man and one of his men jogged across the road to where Zebari lay. Numbers of people began to gather on both sides of the road, attracted by the drama, but none showed any inclination to become involved.

  'You stole something from me. Where is it?' the tall man demanded, as his associate picked up Zebari's Walther.

  The wounded man lay half on the pavement, crumpled and barely moving, a pool of blood spreading around him. He stared up at the tall Arab. Oddly enough, he felt very little pain, just a growing numbness.

  'I haven't got it,' he said, his voice barely audible.

  The tall man gestured and his colleague roughly searched the recumbent figure. He didn't find the card, but pulled out the two envelopes stuffed with banknotes, which he passed to his boss.

  'Have you sold the card?' he demanded, looking down.

  'Yes,' Zebari gasped, a sudden wave of agony coursing though his body.

  'Not a bad deal, Zebari. All this money just for a small piece of card,' the tall man said, his voice quiet and controlled. 'You know me, or at least you must know my reputation. When you broke into my house to try to steal my tablet, you must have guessed what would happen to you. So why did you do it?'

  'It was just a job,' Zebari muttered, the pain now starting to bite. He coughed, and a spray of
blood showered the front of his jacket. 'An order from a British collector.'

  The tall man looked interested. 'Does he have a name, this collector?'

  'I was dealing with an intermediary, an agent.'

  'And what is his name?'

  Zebari said nothing, and the tall man leant closer. 'Tell me his name,' he said, 'and we might walk away and you might live.'

  Zebari stared up, his gaze fixed with a kind of horrified fascination at the tall man's milky-white, unseeing and unblinking right eye.

  'Dexter. Everybody just calls him Dexter.'

  'And where would I find him?'

  'He's here in Rabat. He was right there. I've just sold the card to him.'

  'Good,' the tall man said, straightening up. 'We'll find him. Right, Ahmed, finish it.'

  'I told you what I knew,' Zebari said, his voice rising in terror. 'You said you'd walk away.'

  'I lied,' the tall man muttered, the left side of his face lifting in a travesty of a smile. He nodded to the other man.

  The echo of the second shot was just as loud as the first. Another pool of blood began to spread from Zebari's shattered skull to mingle with the congealing puddle that had already covered a large area of both the road surface and the pavement.

  33

  Alexander Dexter guessed he'd broken every speed limit imposed in Morocco as he drove south in his hired Citroën towards Casablanca, but even he was surprised by how short a time it had taken him to cover the sixty-odd miles to the international airport.

  As he'd walked away from Rue de Sebta, he'd made an instant – and actually very easy – decision.

  He'd just witnessed Zebari's murder. The man had been tracked down and killed in broad daylight in the middle of Rabat, despite whatever precautions he had taken to ensure his own safety.

  But even more terrifying was the ruthlessness of the man who had killed him, the man with the milky-white eye whose frozen face he would not forget – the man, Dexter knew, who would now certainly be after him.

  He had his passport, wallet and keys for the hire car in his pocket; all that he'd left in his hotel room were a few clothes and his washing kit, nothing important. Given Zebari's killer's very obvious capability, Dexter suspected that even if he went back to his hotel immediately, there was a good chance that a couple of men would already be there waiting for him.