The Eye of Ra

by Michael Asher

  Elena glided in from the kitchenette carrying two brass coffee-jugs on a tray with tiny glasses. Doc had certainly been right about her. She had the kind of long-legged beauty you often found among Israeli sabras, a perfect match of the oriental and the Western — jet black hair, velvet-olive skin, eyes like charcoal, slightly hooked nose, slim hips, high breasts. Yet she was distinctly understated. Her hair was brushed back and tied in a pony tail, the true contours of the body not defined but only suggested by the baggy pants and shirt. She set the tray on the table, crouched down and began to pour the coffee carefully. ‘Turkish coffee is to be savoured,’ she said. ‘You only get a little bit.’ The aroma of the coffee was delicious. I sipped it and found it very hot, very sweet and very strong. ‘If you shoot as well as you make coffee, I’m glad you didn’t pull the trigger,’ I said.

  She looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve never used a gun in my life,’ she said.

  ‘Would you really have shot me?’

  ‘If you’d hurt Nikolai any more, yes.’

  Kolpos beamed at her benevolently.

  I finished the coffee and put the cup back on the tray. ‘So how well did you know Julian?’ I asked Kolpos.

  He hesitated, as if weighing the question carefully. His eyes behind the thick glasses were expressionless and watchful. He put his hand over his mouth and set his cup down, staring at Elena.

  She gave me a lingering look. ‘Julian said he trusted Mr Ross,’ she said. ‘Better tell him the whole story.’

  ‘OK,’ Kolpos said slowly. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. This shop isn’t much, Ross, but it’s not my only resource. In fact, I travel widely looking for antiquities — Aleppo, Damascus, Stamboul, Tashkent, Bokhara, Samarkand — even Beijing. Remarkable what treasures the Communists left intact. About a year ago I was in Samarkand where, in a tiny one-room shop in the bazaar, I found something that I’d been dreaming of for years. It was the original manuscript copy of Al-Khalidi’s Book of Lost Treasures.’

  ‘I know the book. It’s a fifteenth-century Latin translation —’

  ‘Of a twelfth-century Arabic manuscript, yes. But the Arabic manuscript was itself based on another seventh-century Arabic text which was believed lost. What I had stumbled across was the original, or at least a copy of it.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Quite. I think you can imagine my excitement, Ross. This was the find of a lifetime. The book itself was priceless just as a curiosity, of course, but the information it held was of even greater interest to me. The later version listed four hundred treasure troves hidden in Egypt, most, though not all, of which had been well dug-over centuries ago. When I examined the original text, though, I found out that the copyist had omitted the details of at least twenty treasure sites, almost all of them of greater interest than the ones included in the later edition. I could only conclude that the omission had been intentional. The dealer was a poor man — the descendant of an Arab pedlar who’d probably brought the book with him to that far-off place. He couldn’t read Arabic, and hadn’t much idea of the book’s value. Of course, I had no intention of cheating him, you understand, but my resources were limited. I gave him $1000 for it. He was accustomed to a very modest lifestyle, so by his standards it was an excellent deal. At once I began on my own translation of the book, picking out the choice sites of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I sold it to an anonymous collector in Dubai.’

  ‘For more than $1000, naturally.’

  Kolpos gulped with satisfaction. ‘Considerably more, yes, but not as much as I could have sold it for had I shopped around. We don’t live by bread alone, and as I said it wasn’t only the money that interested me. I still had my translation.’

  ‘You had your bread as well as eating it, so to speak.’

  ‘Crudely put, but yes, essentially so. Now, here’s the really fascinating bit, Ross. One of the sites mentioned in the book was the Lost Oasis.’

  ‘Zerzura.’

  ‘Yes. Zerzura. Of course Zerzura is also mentioned in the twelfth-century copy, but the directions are so archaic that no one could possibly work out what was intended. The original description was much more detailed: Zerzura was a white city, it said, located in the farthest reaches of the Western Desert, hidden under the sand. In the city lay a dead king and queen on a hoard of priceless treasure. There was a door with the effigy of a bird on it, with a key in its beak. You take the key, open the door and help yourself to the treasure. The directions were detailed but somewhat cryptic.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that the Lost Oasis of Zerzura actually existed?’

  ‘According to the book, yes. You know the story of a lost city in the desert has been mentioned as far back as Strabon, the Greek traveller, in the first century B C, and Bedouin folktales are peppered with references to the Lost Oasis.’

  ‘And it was the treasure that was supposed to lie there that interested you?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. You see, Zerzura was of great historical importance. With the laws in this country being what they are it would have been very difficult to sell the bulk of the treasure. Anything found at Zerzura would almost certainly have been government property and ended up in a museum. That was no good to me. There was, however, another site which tickled my fancy: an ancient diamond mine used by Pharaoh Ramses II, which had been covered by an earthquake centuries ago and never rediscovered. This site also lay in the Western Desert, and its prospects excited me much more. Uncut diamonds have no historical value, and can thus be freely traded. However, finding the site would not be at all straightforward. The descriptions were more than a thousand years old and had to be interpreted by someone who knew the desert well and who was skilled in tracing archaeological sites. It had to be someone discreet, preferably a foreigner, who was not well in with the authorities. Moreover, it had to be someone who had a strong motive for uncovering these sites.’

  ‘Julian Cranwell.’

  ‘Julian was the perfect choice. I met him at a party at the British Embassy; your Mrs Barrington was there, too. He was depressed and broke. The EAS had ceased funding his Zerzura Project, which hadn’t produced anything of interest. The situation was ideal for me. He was obsessed with finding the Lost Oasis. I had the means of finding it and, thanks to my happy sale in Dubai, I had the funds to finance it. He didn’t like the idea of working with me — didn’t trust me at first — but I had the goods, and he was hooked. The deal was that Julian would find both the sites using my money and my translations of the manuscript. While Julian would have exclusive rights to excavate Zerzura, I should be entirely free to exploit the Ramses Mine. Julian agreed eventually. We had a deal. He would still continue his work for the EAS of course, but it would be scaled down. Our project had to be kept secret, and he would work on it in his spare time. That was three months ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘At first nothing. I gave Julian the translation, but it was immensely difficult. As I said, the topography was archaic, some of the directions were encrypted: it was like working with a guidebook from a different planet. Julian was brilliant. He worked by intuition and then fitted the calculations in later, but it was slow work. At least he thought he had a starting-point; that was all important, of course. Then something unexpected happened: Julian returned, very excited, with two figurines.’

  ‘Akhnaton ushabtis?’

  ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Julian mentioned them to me before he died. I just never believed it.’

  ‘Yes, they appeared to be Akhnaton ushabtis. At first even I didn’t believe they were genuine — as you know, Akhnaton’s tomb has never been found. Julian admitted he’d also been sceptical, but now he was convinced they were the real thing. He took them to a friend of his, Robert Rabjohn, an expert on ancient Egyptian artefacts, and Rabjohn agreed they were authentic.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of Rabjohn. Was he a friend of Julian’s?’

  ‘I don’t know. Rabjohn’s one of these
sophisticated loners...a bit of a cold fish. I think he helped fund the Zerzura Project. He’s absolutely stinking rich — inherited money from his father who built a railway in the States. He’s what you might call a professional dilettante, but he’s very well versed in artefacts. He’s seen almost everything and he’s like a bloodhound when it comes to forgeries. Got a collection of artefacts to die for. I don’t know how he gets away with it. I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing more than a fraction of what he’s got, but judging by that, it all ought to be in museums.’

  ‘So Julian accepted his verdict on the ushabtis?’

  ‘Yes, he came to see me, very excited. If they were genuine, he said, then the grave of the last undiscovered pharaoh of the 18th Dynasty, Akhnaton, must have been found. Found secretly, of course, but that didn’t bother him altogether, because he was confident that he could track it down. The problem was time. What worried him sick was that the place might be cleaned out and even closed before its archaeological significance was known. If Akhnaton’s tomb really has been discovered, think of the other treasures it might contain. Akhnaton was a major player. He ruled Egypt for twice as long as Tutankhamen, who was still a boy when he died, yet the treasure in his tomb was reckoned to have been worth £3 million at the time of discovery. It would be worth billions today. Just imagine the value of Akhnaton’s treasure! There are plenty of sharks around who would be only too quick to eat the whole lot.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted to sell the ushabtis?’

  ‘Never! Julian had no interest in personal enrichment and, as I’ve said, I’ve always been wary of dealing in genuine antiquities in this country. Sadly, Julian was so taken up with the possibility of Akhnaton’s tomb that he no longer seemed interested in my proposition. But there was no question of him selling the pieces. He was all for revealing the discovery to the Antiquities Service. In fact he was just about to do so, when he suddenly got scared.’

  ‘That wasn’t like him.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Normally he was scared of no one and nothing. But this time he was truly terrified. I don’t know if he discovered something about Akhnaton’s tomb that frightened him, or whether he was actually threatened, but for the first time I saw him terrified. The next thing I knew, Julian had been found dead. That was the end of my diamond mine.’

  ‘But you still have the descriptions?’

  ‘No. There was only ever one copy of the translations. We agreed on that for security reasons. I don’t know where the texts are. Only Julian knew that, and he’s dead.’

  ‘What about the original text?’

  ‘I don’t even know the name of the buyer. I dealt through middlemen, cash only. No doubt the collector had a reason for keeping his name out of it. No, I don’t think he’ll ever be found.’

  Kolpos paused and looked at me carefully. Elena was also watching me. I removed my glasses and wiped them on my sleeve. The first two fingers of my right hand had gone numb for no apparent reason and there was an almost imperceptible blemish at the edge of my vision. These were the tell-tale signs that a massive migraine attack was on its way. I took a couple of deep breaths, knowing that one thing deep breathing could not cure was a migraine. Then I replaced my glasses.

  ‘OK, you think Julian was murdered,’ I said, ‘but why should you be next on the list?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know why Julian was killed,’ Kolpos said, ‘but if it was for the ushabtis, then I might be in trouble. You see, I’m the only one who knows where they are.’

  ‘And where are they?’

  Kolpos’s face closed up like a camera shutter. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said, sharply. ‘Are you crazy? You don’t even want to know. There are crooks in this town who’d kill their own mothers to get their hands on them.’

  ‘How do I know the ushabtis even exist?’

  ‘You’ll have to take my word — and Julian’s.’

  I looked at them both. The story had come out too readily somehow. Kolpos seemed too anxious for me to swallow it. It might be part of the truth, but I was certain it wasn’t the whole thing. And there were no artefacts to corroborate it. I got up to leave. My vision was already beginning to swim at the periphery; within twenty minutes I knew I’d scarcely be able to see at all. ‘You tell a riveting story, Mr Kolpos,’ I said, ‘but unfortunately without seeing the ushabtis I can’t even judge whether they are a figment of your — or Julian’s — imagination. Here’s my number...’ I gave him a slip of paper with Doc’s telephone number on it. ‘If you decide you want to tell me any more, perhaps you’d give me a call.’

  The mass of whorls and vortices had already begun rolling across my vision by the time I showed myself out.

  12

  By the time I reached Doc’s flat my head felt as though someone had shoved a red-hot knitting needle through it. The visual aura which always heralded the attacks had gone, leaving a residue of nausea and the embarrassing inability to articulate a sentence.

  ‘Migraine,’ I told Doc as soon as she opened the door.

  ‘Oh, you poor dear,’ she said, leading me to my old bedroom and making me comfortable. She shut out the light, helped me pull off my shoes, then hurried off and came back shortly with some disgusting-looking concoction in a glass, like seaweed soup. I shook my head violently, but Doc insisted. ‘It’s just a herbal infusion,’ she said. ‘It’s the only thing that really works. They always recommend paracetamol, but it’s no good. No one knows what causes migraine, but it’s probably stress-related. Attacks the optic nerve, and your brainwaves go haywire — almost like a miniature epileptic fit. Had a bad day, darling?’

  I tried to explain that I’d narrowly escaped being sliced up with a meat cleaver and shot, but the words failed to materialise. Instead, a stream of gibberish came out. The oral effect is the most frightening aspect of migraine; it usually lasts only minutes, but while it lasts it’s a glimpse of madness I can well do without.

  ‘Don’t try, darling,’ Doc said. ‘It’ll be gone in twenty minutes. You know that.’

  I lay back on the pillow. It was good to be doctored by Doc.

  There was a comforting, nursy, air of competence and warmth about her which made you feel instantly at ease. She settled down on the armchair while I swallowed the infusion. It tasted as vile as it smelt.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you,’ Doc said. ‘This morning I rang up the Consulate to find out what they knew about Julian’s body. At first I couldn’t get through to Melvin - Melvin Renner, HMC . I said to the girl, “Look, I know him, he’s a personal friend of mine.” Did no good. Anyway about ten calls later they put Melvin on. I explained the problem about Julian and he said, “I’m sorry, Evelyn, but I don’t know anything about it, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. It’s not your affair, and I can only advise the next of kin.” Then he hung up, the shit. I’ve known Melvin since he was posted here — always was a supercilious prick. Anyway, that’s him off the Christmas card list, for a start. But it still leaves us with no body. The only thing we can do now is contact the police.’

  Doc smoothed the pillow for me and flicked on a red night-light. ‘Does that bother you, Jamie?’ she asked.

  I grunted.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I started looking at the diskettes you found at Julian’s. There’s all sorts of weird shit, including a file on Orde Wingate. I found out why Julian was so interested in him. As a young officer in the Royal Artillery, he was stationed in Khartoum in the 1930s. It’s certain that he visited Tut’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings, and possible, though not confirmed, that he met Howard Carter. But that’s not the most intriguing thing. In 1933 he organised an expedition in search of the Lost Oasis of Zerzura...’

  I sat up and tried to speak, my jaw working like a goldfish. ‘No, lie back, dear,’ Doc said, soothingly. ‘Just listen. In 1933, Wingate tramps off into the Western Desert — terra incognita in those days - to look for Julian’s favourite Lost Oasis, with a caravan of about fifteen Bedouin. The Bedouin are never seen ag
ain. Wingate and his headman totter out of the dunes after three weeks, so shaken they can hardly talk. The headman cracks up properly and has to be put away, and Wingate claims to be suffering from amnesia. He recovers slowly and writes a milk-and-water report which reveals nothing. There are plenty of rumours, but nothing concrete, and Wingate himself begins to behave strangely, as if he’s hiding some big secret. Seems everybody regarded Wingate as a real asshole, but they all agreed he was a military genius. He organised the Gideon Mission in Ethiopia in 1941, drove the Italians out and put Haile Selassie back on the throne. After it was over he tried to top himself here in Cairo by sticking a bowie knife in his throat — twice. Someone rescued him before he bled to death.’

  ‘Good God,’ I said. The oral distortion was passing; the herbal infusion was spreading a comforting blanket of warmth across my body.

  ‘Sounds like it’s working,’ said Doc.

  ‘Feels like a hot needle in my head.’

  ‘Just lie still, Jamie. Let it pass. Where was I...Oh, yes...they gave him fourteen pints of blood and he pulled through. Then they made him a general and trotted him off to lead the Chindits in Burma. Another brilliant campaign. No one believed the British could outfight the Japs in the jungle, but under Wingate they did it. He croaked in 1944.’