by Stephen Cole
‘Torque – you know, you use a torque wrench with the pick to open …’ Patch shrugged. ‘Never mind. Locksmith joke.’
‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ Jonah cracked open Motti’s beer on a black marble countertop. ‘So that was all you were doing? Getting inside squats?’
Patch paused, his one good eye clouding over as if at a bad memory. ‘No.’
‘And I’m guessing Coldhardt hasn’t taken you under his wing to help people who’ve locked themselves out of the house. Right?’
‘Nah. I’m a thief. Only thing I’m any good at.’
Jonah decided he might as well just come out and say it. ‘Well, I don’t want to sound like a Boy Scout here, but … Don’t you ever feel bad? Ripping off people’s houses and stuff?’
‘We don’t go burgling normal people!’ Patch protested. ‘Coldhardt ain’t no ordinary crook. And he don’t plan ordinary jobs.’ He looked suddenly shifty, lowered his voice. ‘You saw those photos he got hold of. He moves in some pretty freaky circles.’
Jonah hesitated to ask, ‘Freaky how?’
‘How come such a little kid got such a big mouth?’ Motti had come slouching into the room, huffing on his glasses, polishing them on his sleeve. ‘Listen, geek, let’s just say that the types Coldhardt rips off, they don’t exactly rush to call in the fuzz. These people are rich enough – powerful enough – to work outside the law.’
‘No one’s outside the law,’ said Jonah automatically.
‘Is that so?’ Motti smiled and took his beer. ‘Well, anyway, with Coldhardt’s interests, it ain’t just modern, high-tech places we have to break into. We’ve gone to work on temples, mausoleums …’
Jonah stared. ‘Grave-robbing, you mean?’
‘No, I don’t mean.’ He smirked. ‘But you’d be amazed what stuff gets buried.’
‘You superstitious, Jonah?’ asked Patch.
‘’Course not.’
‘I never used to be.’
Jonah raised an eyebrow. ‘And what? You are now?’
‘Sleeps with the lights on, doncha, Cyclops?’ sneered Motti.
‘So?’ There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Patch gave him two fingers, Motti gave him one in return and Patch wandered back off towards the TV room. But Jonah found his eyes lingering uneasily on the eerie mural on the wall, at the shadowy, undefined figures ranged across it.
‘Who painted that?’ he asked.
‘Coldhardt. Kind of freaky, huh?’ Motti paused for a deep swig of beer. ‘He calls it Still Life.’
‘I thought that meant when you painted flowers and fruit and stuff.’
‘Maybe he means, whatever freaky bad stuff’s happened in that picture… there’s still life.’
‘If you can call it that,’ said Jonah quietly.
‘Hey. It’s OK.’ There was no sneer in Motti’s voice now Patch was out of earshot. ‘I told you before, I fixed this place. We’re safe. Nothing can get in here.’
Jonah looked at him. ‘No one, you mean.’
Motti nodded, half-smiled. ‘Whatever.’
* * *
Ophiuchus, also known as Imhotep – the man who couldn’t die? Tye searched Demnos’s face for signs he was trying to deceive them, but his gaze was clear and confident.
Con, however, was looking at Demnos with barely disguised contempt. ‘You expect us to believe there’s some four-and-a-half-thousand-year-old man running around?’
‘There are many who do believe. A great many.’ Demnos let his stare linger on Tye. ‘The scraps of the Spartan scytale cipher I have in my possession were… recovered together with fragments of a further document. It is marked with the sign of the snake. I believe it is a copy of Ophiuchus’s prescription for Amrita, in his own hand. And that it is genuine.’
Tye’s mouth had dried. ‘Fragments, you said?’
‘Fragments that Mr Demnos does not wish to share with us,’ said Coldhardt casually.
Demnos’s dark eyes flashed. ‘I am not a fool,’ he snapped. ‘I know the value of the prescription, even incomplete.’ He paused, regained control. ‘But I have come to believe further parts of the same parchment exist in the hands of another collector, who may or may not appreciate the true importance of what they possess.’
‘Who is this collector?’ Tye asked.
‘Her name is Samraj Vasavi. A cheating harpy, obsessed with her own cleverness.’
‘You didn’t always think so,’ murmured Coldhardt.
Demnos glowered at him. ‘That was many years ago.’
‘I heard people talking about Samraj out there,’ Con said. ‘How she’s just funded a private hospital for sick children. She is worth a fortune, yes? Runs a multinational.’
‘Serpens Biotech,’ said Demnos, like the words tasted bad in his mouth. ‘The company trades in genetic research. If Samraj has opened a hospital, it’s to secure a steady stream of guinea pigs for the experimental cures she hopes to sell to the world.’
‘You think she may be pushing Amrita as one of those “experimental” cures?’ asked Tye.
‘It is possible. But the only way I can know for sure is to find out how much of Ophiuchus’s prescription Samraj has in her possession.’
Coldhardt idly pulled flecks of dust from the white rosebud on his lapel. ‘Which is why Raul is in need of our services.’
‘I am paying you well to uncover the truth,’ Demnos stated. ‘And I must know quickly.’
‘Why the sudden rush?’ Con’s gold lacy dress shimmered as she crossed one leg over the other. ‘I mean, if these fragments have been lying around for thousands of years …’
‘Word has reached me that a great mastaba was recently unearthed at the Sakkara necropolis, outside of Cairo.’
‘An Egyptian tomb,’ Coldhardt translated, ‘in the ancient city of the dead.’
Demnos nodded impatiently. ‘Many artefacts were discovered inside, many personal effects. Experts believe this could be the tomb of Imhotep.’
Con couldn’t contain herself. ‘But if Imhotep – or Ophiuchus, or whatever he’s calling himself today – never died –’
‘So far, there has been no mention of a body.’
Tye felt a tingle up her spine in the silence that followed.
But Con still wasn’t ready to be convinced. ‘Maybe they did find one, but they’re keeping it quiet,’ she argued.
‘Why would they? Don’t you see, girl? Imhotep left Egypt to become Ophiuchus. He faked his own death and stored away his possessions.’ Tye could tell Demnos wasn’t just hoping. He was utterly convinced. ‘This mastaba must be a kind of strongroom, a place for secrets.’
Tye nodded. ‘And you think another copy of the full prescription could be inside?’
‘Perhaps. That is what you must discover.’
‘Because even if only fragments remain, they could still complete the parchment,’ Con realised. ‘For you – or for Samraj.’
‘I must know how much of the prescription she possesses. Any ingredient, any clue could be vital. And I imagine that, like me, she will be moving swiftly.’ Demnos mopped his forehead again and checked his gold wristwatch. ‘Now, you must excuse me. Yianna – my daughter – she needs me. She is very frail.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Tye.
‘The image of her mother.’ Demnos lowered his face and crossed himself. ‘Now I must rejoin her, see that she is all right.’
‘Of course,’ said Coldhardt smoothly. ‘We’ve detained you long enough.’
The big man pulled out a crisp white envelope from inside his jacket and placed it on the curator’s desk. ‘A downpayment. I have already provided you with the details of the mastaba’s location. I wish to hear of your success within three days. Do not disappoint me, Mr Coldhardt.’ With that, he nodded at his bodyguard to join him, and both left the room without another word.
The second he left, Con pounced on the envelope and started to purr. Coldhardt held out a hand for it while turning to Tye. ‘Well?’
�
��Good, steady eye contact, no fidgeting … Faced us the whole time, his posture was good. Didn’t cover his mouth, no real elaboration …’
‘He was sweating like a pig,’ said Con, pouting as she surrendered the envelope.
‘But he didn’t try to hide it. He’s a big man, it’s warm in here.’ Tye shrugged. ‘I think he was telling the truth. At least, he believes it’s the truth.’
‘Then he is seriously deluded,’ Con retorted. ‘But a madman’s money is as good as anyone else’s, yes?’
‘I don’t believe he’s mad,’ said Coldhardt, tucking the envelope away without bothering to check its contents. ‘He’s just very well informed.’
‘Who by?’
‘By whom.’ Coldhardt smiled wanly. ‘You’ll travel to Cairo first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, shall we enjoy the party a little longer?’
‘Yes,’ said Con without hesitation, flinging open the door.
‘Why not?’ Tye muttered, feeling her blisters burn beneath the elegant strap of her shoe.
But she found Coldhardt had paused just outside the door. At the end of the corridor, the woman in green was deep in conversation with an attentive couple.
Coldhardt held a polite hand over his mouth and cleared his throat noisily.
The woman looked up, saw him and excused herself brusquely.
‘Nathaniel,’ she said, her tongue lingering over the word as she leaned in to press a kiss on each cheek. The accent of her English was heavy, as exotic as her dark, glittering eyes. ‘I thought I spied you earlier.’
‘Good evening, Samraj.’
Con and Tye exchanged startled looks. So this was Demnos’s rival. Their opponent. Their target.
‘Allow me to introduce my niece, Constance, and her friend –’
‘You’ve acted unwisely, Nathaniel,’ said Samraj, ignoring both Tye and Con completely. ‘Been terribly irresponsible.’
‘I have?’
A light danced in her eyes. ‘Leaving an old friend to mix with bores all night when you could have been entertaining me yourself. I shan’t forgive you this neglect, you know.’
‘Oh?’ Coldhardt took her hand and raised it to his lips. He pressed a kiss against the very tip of her fingers, an oddly intimate gesture, his eyes meeting the yellow diamonds of the snake bracelet coiled round her arm.
Con’s pale eyes had turned almost as hard; Tye knew well that she didn’t take kindly to being ignored. ‘Uncle, dear, we really must be going. There’s so much to prepare before my trip tomorrow.’
Now Samraj turned to face her, amusement on her handsome features. ‘You are going somewhere, my dear?’
‘Back to Paris,’ said Con unflinchingly. ‘I must write up an account of this memorable event for my newspaper.’
‘Of course you must,’ she said softly.
‘Then if you’ll excuse us, Samraj?’ Coldhardt was dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief as if wiping his lips after a meal. ‘It seems I must neglect you once more.’
‘And just as the evening was getting interesting.’ Now she glanced at Tye with ill-concealed disdain. ‘We’ll all meet again soon, I am sure.’
And as Tye nodded and turned to follow the others, she knew one thing with certainty: Samraj was speaking the truth as well.
Chapter Seven
If you had to be squeezed in five to a car, Jonah reflected, it might as well be a flash convertible on a blazing hot day, somewhere exotic. And cruising along the road from Cairo to Sakkara was better than squashing up inside a crappy white van in a prison car park, at any rate. Maybe things were looking up.
They were heading west now in their hire car after a long stretch north. The road was flanked by fields of fig palms. A large, crumbling pyramid was looming ever closer in a fine, smoky haze.
‘Step pyramid,’ said Motti, beside him. ‘Says here it’s the first of its kind. Built by our old pal Imhotep.’
‘Maybe we should knock on the door, see if he’s at home,’ said Con sourly. She had bagged the front seat beside Tye as ever, her long, pale legs pushed up against the dash.
‘I need a pee,’ Patch complained.
‘Hey, and the desert needs irrigating,’ said Motti. ‘Drop the Cyclops here, Tye. They were meant for each other.’
‘Don’t take your hangover out on Patch,’ said Tye, with the air of someone well used to talking to brick walls. She was wearing pale cotton trousers, and a little pink shirt that looked great against her dark skin and the deep blue sky.
The others had taken it for granted, but Jonah couldn’t get over how she’d switched from piloting an eight-seater Beech King Air 350 to driving a hired BMW without effort or complaint, and given such a smooth ride in both – especially in the kamikaze insanity of the Cairo traffic. But nagging at the back of his mind was the thought of all she must have done to get so good, to come to Coldhardt’s attention. He wondered how she’d got into smuggling so young. Whether she’d had a choice. What her choices were now.
‘This job better not be like that crypt we had to get into in Lima,’ Motti said suddenly, prompting a round of pained and noisy remembrance from the others. ‘I mean, sure, it was a pretty crystal, but those ancients knew a bit too much about self-defence if you ask me.’
‘Thought my hair was gonna turn white,’ said Patch with a shudder.
‘I can’t believe we got out of that one with all our fingers intact,’ said Con. ‘And no way am I ever dressing up as a leper again …’
Jonah chose not to question them; he wasn’t sure if they were trying to wind him up again. And in any case, for now he just wanted to enjoy the view and the sunshine. Staring out of the window, he drifted off into his own thoughts.
The day had kicked off at 6.30am with a wake-up call from Con. She’d told him to get his ass out of bed, pack some light clothes and get downstairs. They were going to Egypt, to track down some old relics linked to Ophiuchus in some newly discovered tomb, stuff that might or might not be linked in to the secret of eternal life.
Jonah’s money was on ‘might not’. But the job didn’t sound too scary. Just nuts.
He’d been given a perfectly forged passport under the name Johann Sypher, ‘just in case’ he needed to show it to anyone, and Con led him out on to the chateau’s private runway. Jonah had a grin on his face a mile wide as he watched the twin-engine turbo-prop plane glide out of its hangar. He’d always wanted to fly. Up till now, he’d never even been abroad.
‘Coldhardt not coming with us?’ he asked.
The mention of his name brought a glacial frown to Con’s face. ‘Why would he? The job is simple. A child could do it.’
He smiled innocently. ‘So how was last night?’
‘Just get on board,’ she told him.
The five-hour flight from Geneva to Cairo passed quietly. Con and Patch wasted little time crashing out in the luxury seats. But Jonah was too excited to shift his eyes from the circular windows. He could hear Motti crouched over a thin sheaf of plans and papers and a seltzer, puzzling something out and muttering about the injustices of life. It seemed to have been a late night. Jonah had wisely gone to bed around one, when Motti was already on to his sixth beer and fourth tournament of Fatal Conflict against Patch. The sound of electronic gunfire had carried faintly to his room like distant thunder, as clouds swallowed the moon through his window like a bad omen.
‘We’re here,’ Tye announced, jerking Jonah from his memories as a big welcome sign came into view.
Guards in dark uniforms loitered near the entrance with bored faces and big guns. The landscape had been bleached of all colour by the fierce sun. Tourists milled about in roped-off areas, lingered in front of impressive tombs. But there were wide tracts of sandy desolation too, and excavations in progress. Figures in white djellabas and turbans drifted about the mounds and rubble, working or overseeing others.
‘If this place is so old, how can there be anything left to uncover?’ Jonah asked.
‘Egypt’s dead were buried
here for more than three thousand years,’ Tye informed him. ‘They’ve been excavating for maybe a couple of hundred.’
He blushed. ‘OK, when you put it that way …’
‘I’ll get us access all areas,’ said Con.
‘Can you ask if we can use their toilet, too?’ Patch called.
Con gave him a withering look as she got out of the car. Patch stared back dreamily as she smoothed out her short denim skirt and black top and walked over to the guards. She started talking confidently and fluently in a language Jonah didn’t recognise.
‘Is that Arabic or something?’
‘Duh!’ said Motti. ‘What else is she gonna speak in Egypt?’
Jonah was impressed. ‘How many languages does she speak?’
‘Fluent in eight,’ said Tye. ‘Good working knowledge of eleven more.’
‘Including “goddess”,’ Patch added.
A few minutes later Con got back in the car, looking pleased with herself. ‘We can drive through to the dig office. The guard’s calling through to Professor Allein now – he’s the team leader. We’re archaeology students with special clearance.’
‘Got it,’ said Tye.
They drove on along the bumpy, dusty track, Con reeling off directions. The office was a battered old Portakabin, its weatherproofing dried out and cracked by the sun. A thin, balding man in a linen suit, his tanned face scored with deep wrinkles, was frowning down his long nose at them.
‘I don’t have time to speak to students,’ he said in a thick French accent. But when Con started gabbling at him in his own tongue, he smiled broadly and said something back.
‘The professor says he’s about to make an important phone call,’ Con reported. ‘He is sorry he was rude. He thought we were all English.’
Tye muttered something that was probably deeply offensive in Creole.
As Con continued her chat, Motti shrugged. ‘Whatever. Saves us having to speak to old Leather Face.’
‘Not quite,’ said Patch. ‘I gotta ask him one thing.’ But the way he staggered out of the car, clutching his crotch with his legs held tight together was eloquence itself, and the old man wearily gestured he go inside the cabin.
