Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner

by Murray Bailey

  The car sped away from the airport and picked up a dual carriageway. Alex glanced behind twice, but realized it was impossible for him to judge if anyone was following. The way Marek drove, Alex guessed they were travelling at between 80 and 100 miles an hour. He tried to read the speedometer and was shocked to see it wasn’t working. Marek began to chat like a tourist guide. He said something about the name of the road and that it went straight through Cairo and ended at the pyramids. Alex also heard him say something about a special hotel and then Muhammad Ali. Alex looked out of the window into the darkness. He made out the vague shape of a giant mosque and, straining to make sense of the dim images he could see, he began to relax. Perhaps it wasn’t the BMW man. Perhaps he hadn’t been watching them. Perhaps he was innocently waiting for someone or looking for a taxi.

  Vanessa broke into his thoughts by saying, “So, Marek, do you have Arabic blood?”

  “I am from Hungary, where my father’s family come from, but my mother’s side is originally from Egypt. I think this is why I became an Egyptologist. The Egyptian people are very friendly, but you must stay aware. Do not have your Western expectations.” He looked over his shoulder at Alex and nodded as though he was saying something very significant. “Do not have your expectations. Egypt is different. You must be careful with your money and barter for everything, and even after you think you have agreed the price, be careful that it doesn’t change. You see, Egyptians are clever. You may agree to pay five pounds before and at the end they ask for five English pounds.”

  Alex said, “There are almost ten Egyptian pounds to the British pound.”

  “Precisely! That is just one trick, but it is done with good humour, so do not get angry. You understand that it is best not to get angry.”

  The road became more congested and Marek was forced to slow. As they came off the carriageway, a car with no lights cut them up. Marek did not react and Alex quickly realized this style of driving was to be expected. A cyclist, with nothing but a torch in one hand, passed them on the kerb side, squeezing between parked cars and the moving traffic.

  “Crazy!” Vanessa gasped.

  Marek said, “There are almost twenty million people in Cairo. It is a big problem.”

  “What, do you mean it’s all right for some to get killed?” A figure in black ran across the road weaving between cars. “Whoa!”

  Marek chuckled, “No, no, no! I mean there are so many people that it is very congested and drivers are very aware.”

  The roads became even more tangled with traffic and Alex noted that horns were sounded as single, short blasts as a warning rather than in anger. More people dodged between the cars, and he tried not to worry about them or the other vehicles that looked like they would hit but amazingly didn’t. He focused on the purpose of their visit. He was dying to talk about the research and fill in any gaps in his knowledge.

  “I’ve been through all the notes, Marek. It’s an amazing discovery. Just incredible. You should get a prize for what you’ve found.”

  “Thank you, but let us find what it leads to first, Alex.” Marek cleared his throat. “I think you have an expression in England: do not count your chickens until they are catched.”

  “Something like that,” Alex acknowledged. “I’d like to go through your translations line by line. Not now, of course, but when you’re ready.”

  “Of course. Tomorrow morning. Perhaps on the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Marek looked across at him, confusion on his face. “I thought—”

  “That I’d know where to look? To be honest I don’t know. I’m hoping that being here makes sense of the Map-Stone.”

  No one spoke for a moment and Alex felt awkward for whipping up the excitement without having a plan. “The clay tablets were found in Amarna, in Akhenaten’s ancient city.”

  Marek nodded. “Yes, but the Map-Stone probably came from Tutankhamen’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings.”

  Things suddenly crystallized in Alex’s mind. The map led somewhere else. It wasn’t a map to the Valley of the Kings. “The starting point has to be Amarna,” he said assuredly.

  Marek reached across and patted his shoulder. “Tell el-Amarna it is. I will book us a train for tomorrow afternoon. We should have time in the morning and then perhaps on the train to go through the translations, no?”

  Marek sounded his horn as a figure dodged across the road. He said, “The trains are very bad, but don’t worry, I will get a first-class train and it will be very comfortable.” He grinned. “Ah, we are here.”

  He pulled up outside Hotel Victoria. From the outside the building was a five-storey block of salmon-pink. “I hope it is all right,” he said, taking their bags out and again carrying Vanessa’s. “The tourist hotels are very cheap but I don’t think you would like to stay there. There are, of course, the five star hotels, but I don’t think you would like to stay there either!” He waved goodbye and drove away.

  From the outside the hotel looked tired and dirty. If the tourist hotels were worse, then Alex judged they must be terrible. However, his concerns were allayed as they entered a foyer that looked like it had been transported from a hundred years ago. Stylish and not at all shabby.

  Vanessa said, “It looks lovely… inside.”

  They checked in. Separate rooms. Vanessa on floor one and Alex on the other side on the top floor.

  He walked her to her room. “Double-lock your door,” he said. “I know Marek said the Egyptian people are friendly, but he also said to be aware. And”—he smiled—“I promised your uncle to take care.”

  “I’ll put a chair against the door as well.” She kissed him on the cheek and said goodnight.

  When Alex reached his own room, his bag hadn’t been delivered. After five minutes it arrived and he tipped the boy who was grateful for the notes that were worth only a few British pennies. Taking his own advice, he double-locked the door handle and put the chain across. Maybe it wouldn’t delay a determined attacker for long, but hopefully the security would help him sleep.

  He stripped, quickly showered, then got under the bed sheet and switched off the light. The minutes ticked by. He couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling and started to think about Vanessa.

  She was alone in her room. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either. Maybe she was worried really and would feel safer together.

  He rolled over and looked at the phone. Should he call her room?

  As he reached for the handset, there was a light knock on his door. He jumped out of bed, picked up his damp towel and tucked it round his waist. His heart raced. He’d once seen a film where the guy in the room looked through the peephole only to get a bullet through the eye. He faced the door, nervous and uncertain.

  The knock again.

  Alex said, “Who is it?”

  “Me.” A whisper from the other side.

  Vanessa.

  He took off the chain and turned the handle.

  She was still dressed in her trouser suit, which made sense since she’d just crossed a lobby and come up the stairs or lift.

  She said, “All right if I come in?”

  He said, “I was about to call you.”

  “Really?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.” She stepped over to the bed and sat on the edge. He double-locked the door again and walked towards her.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Not a good idea.” She held out a couple of small wine bottles. “I got these from my mini bar.”

  He fetched two plastic cups from the bathroom and she poured red wine for them both.

  He sat and they chinked the plastic.

  “Nervous? Excited?” she asked.

  Alex thought and then said, “Excited, but a touch uncomfortable, I think. I was looking forward to meeting Marek, but… I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t totally what I expected.”

  “I meant about me being here.” She laughed lightly.

  “Vanessa
…”

  “I’m sorry about what happened between us.” She placed a hand on his thigh and looked into his eyes. “It’s best we just remain friends.”

  “Yes,” he said, and found himself leaning in. Their lips met.

  She pulled back briefly and whispered. “We should take this slowly.”

  Minutes later she was out of her trouser suit and he was pleasantly surprised to discover she wore nothing underneath.

  FORTY

  1336 BCE, Luxor

  At the gate to the magistrate’s house, Yanhamu stepped out of the bindings he wore on his feet. The slave led him to a water trough. He was then instructed to remove all of his clothes and immerse himself. As soon as Yanhamu disrobed, the man scooped up the dirty clothes and tossed them away.

  When the boy was in the trough, the slave gripped his head and roughly pushed it under the water. After a moment of panic Yanhamu was released and then his hair was scrubbed with a bar of natron blended with sweet-smelling flowers. Then the slave handed the bar to him and told him to rub it over his whole body until his skin was pink.

  A small girl came from the house and handed the slave a simple white gown. She stared at Yanhamu in the trough, covered her giggles and scurried back.

  The slave beckoned him out of the water and handed him the gown. “Now I will tell you two stories and I want you to tell me which of them is the truth. Understand?”

  Yanhamu wiped the last of the water from his eyes and studied the slave’s face.

  The man said, “The first is: I took bread from a bakery as a teenager. My punishment was to lose my ear.” He pointed to a partially severed left ear. “My second story is that I was sold into slavery as a baby, because my mother died in childbirth.”

  Yanhamu asked, “Your parents were not slaves?”

  “No.”

  “What work did they do?”

  When the slave answered, Yanhamu smiled. “That is the lie. Your parent’s were both slaves but your mother died in childbirth as you said.”

  The slave did not confirm or deny Yanhamu’s assertion, but told him to sit under the sycamore tree and wait. He left him there and a short time later the magistrate appeared. He no longer wore his cloak of office and had changed into a simple white tunic.

  Yanhamu stood. “I did not steal the amulet, my lord.”

  The magistrate studied him and then asked him to open his mouth and show his teeth.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “No, my lord, but I can work.”

  The magistrate walked around him. “You do not have the look of a peasant. Where are you from?”

  Yanhamu told the man about his village and the matriarch’s name.

  The magistrate pondered for a moment and then said, “So, you can tell when someone is being truthful. A magistrate is required to have this skill, to judge the guilty from the innocent, and it is something I... it is a talent I was born with. You want to learn the law, my boy, so be it. You will learn by being my assistant. Is that agreed?”

  Yanhamu nodded enthusiastically. “You won’t regret it, my lord.”

  “I regret it already,” the magistrate said. Then, waving to the slave, called, “Paneb!”

  The magistrate left and the slave told the boy to kneel and bow his head.

  “Since you are staying, you need to learn your place. You are the lowliest. You do what you are told, when you are told. If I am not happy with you, you will be thrown out. Although I am a slave, you will not call me Paneb, you will always call me Master Hapuseneb. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Master Hapuseneb.”

  “You will never be familiar with his lordship. You will never be familiar with his family. You will avert your eyes from the ladies, including the young lady Nefer-bithia. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Master Hapuseneb.”

  “Now, hold still.” The slave pulled a copper blade from his belt, tested it to show its sharpness, and gripped Yanhamu’s hair. For an horrific moment the boy thought he was going to be cut in some sort of initiation ceremony or worse still have his throat slashed. He dug his fingers into the earth and braced himself.

  Hapuseneb guffawed and pulled hard, making tears wet the boy’s cheeks, but Yanhamu bit his tongue and felt a chunk of hair sliced off.

  “Since you are staying here, and living in my quarters, I’m getting rid of these lice.” He paused and then began to systematically cut off the tangled hair, leaving only stubble and a few bloody lines where the blade had nicked the skin.

  When it was over, Yanhamu stood and shook the hair from his gown and tried hard to look as though he hadn’t cried.

  The slave said, “Now clean up this mess and then I will take you through your daily duties.”

  “Master, I would like my amulet back.”

  Hapuseneb raised a shaved eyebrow and turned his back. “Prove yourself to his lordship, Lord Khety, and I will believe that you did not steal the precious necklace. Until that time it will remain in my safe keeping.”

  That night, his hands and back aching from the work the slave had made him do, Yanhamu dreamed he was a magistrate. He pulled the gown of office tightly around his shoulders and stood up tall. A circle of spectators screamed for justice. In the centre stood the captain of the guard, the one who had taken and killed Laret. Anubis was there. The crowd stopped shouting and Anubis read the list of crimes the captain had committed, telling of how he had taken a young maiden on the pretence of taking her to be trained as a royal dancer. How he had abused her and disrespected her. How he had taken her life with a short sword and had her body thrown into the Nile.

  The captain said nothing as the charges were read out, his granite face impassive. But his face was different because the gouge from Laret’s hook had badly scarred him and the livid mark ran over an eye and twitched with guilt.

  When Anubis finished, the crowd began to shout once more. Then they were no longer just people, but demons: the devourer, the bone-crusher, the serpent, the ba-eater, the beheader and the water-demon. They were all there, a morass of terrible creatures all eager for death.

  Yanhamu raised his hand and they fell silent. He invited the captain to speak, and as he defended himself, denying each charge, Yanhamu shouted, “Liar!”

  The defendant finished, to the derision of the baying demons.

  Yanhamu pronounced the death sentence and watched as the demons destroyed the guilty captain the way a hungry child might tear at a chicken carcass.

  FORTY-ONE

  The cigarette-smoke-heavy room produced dim blue-grey patches of light. There were three chairs and two men. The young man in one of the chairs made animated gestures between rapid puffs on his cigarette. The other man was impassive and had a walking stick propped against the arm of his chair. He wore a hat and his cigar smoke curled around its brim.

  He shook his head at a complaint and was about to interrupt the younger man when there was a knock on the door.

  After a hesitation the younger of the two stood and answered it.

  “Yes?”

  “Brotherhood.”

  Recognizing the password, the young man opened the door. “Joachim,” he said in polite greeting, although both men knew it was merely out of necessity. This new man was the one codenamed Fox. The old man was the one known as Owl but there was no need for secret names here.

  “Wael,” Joachim acknowledged, and walked to the chairs and stood behind one.

  The senior man leaned on his cane as though about to rise. But it was just for show and he simply nodded, welcome.

  He said, “Please sit.” His voice was thick with catarrh and a heavy Yiddish heritage which Joachim reckoned the old man put on for effect. He could speak good English when he wanted to.

  When they were all seated, Joachim said, “Our friend is nervous.”

  “I was just talking about that,” Wael said. “It’s no wonder he’s nervous after you arranged for him to be chased and have his house burgled.” He looked from Joachim to the
old man and back. “And you also scared him with guns!”

  “It’s worked, hasn’t it?” Joachim shrugged dismissively. “He’s here now. All you have to do, Wael, is play your role. I’ve done the most difficult part.”

  The elderly man cleared his throat and Wael swallowed the retort he was about to make.

  “Enough of this petty griping,” the man known as Owl snapped. “Tell us what you have learned, Joachim.”

  Joachim said, “I don’t know why, but he’s very uncomfortable with you.” He returned Wael’s hard stare for a second before continuing: “Something you said or didn’t say, but MacLure is a little suspicious.”

  Wael was about to protest, but the elderly man raised his stick to indicate he should be silent, then said, “Do we have a problem?”

  Joachim blinked the smoke from his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. The rabbit’s an unusual person. His mind doesn’t quite work the same as yours or mine. And he is very aware of the potential implications of the bird’s discovery.”

  The old man said, “We can call them MacLure and Champion now.”

  “Our discovery,” Wael said. “The research was Champion’s and Marek’s.”

  Joachim slammed his hand on the chair’s arm and glared. “Wael, you are an idiot.” Then he looked pleadingly at the old man. “I said we should find someone from Eastern Europe rather than make do with an Egyptian.”

  Wael shouted, “I’m in character, and how dare you call me an idiot? And then you insult my family…”

  “Enough!” For the first time, the old man showed anger by gripping his walking stick and banging it on the floor. “You”—he pointed the stick at Wael—“what do we need to do to convince the Englishman?”

  Wael shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Phlegm rattled in the old man’s throat and he sat forward. The others waited for him to speak.

  To Wael he asked, “Do you have access to the map?”

  “No. I think it’s in his head.”

  Joachim groaned.

  Wael said, “What we need to do is get him to draw it.”