by James Becker
What Abdul didn’t know, and didn’t actually care about, was that the body of the boy-king himself was once again lying in the Valley of the Kings, in his burial chamber, having been taken back there in November 2007, exactly eighty-five years to the day after the discovery of his tomb. He was laid to rest there for the second time after his death in about 1323 BC, this time for eternity, but instead of the warm darkness of the original chamber in which he lay, surrounded by some three and half thousand artefacts intended to assist him in the afterlife, his wrapped mummy is now on display in a climate-controlled glass box, a move intended to reduce the rate of decomposition of his body.
The guide also pointed out that it wasn’t just Tutankhamun’s treasures that made the museum a popular destination. The building also housed the mummies of eleven Egyptian kings and queens in a single hall, and there was a huge array of statues, jewels, coins, papyrus, sarcophagi, scarabs and a host of other relics covering the entire span of time from the pre-dynastic and Old Kingdom periods right up to the Greek and Roman eras, a total of some 120,000 items, all contained within the museum’s hundred-plus chambers, either on display or in storage.
Abdul closed the section of the guide he’d been reading and looked again at the museum. Getting inside the building wouldn’t be a problem: he would simply have to buy a ticket at the door. Getting through the metal detectors could be a little more difficult.
But Abdul had a solution, intended for just such a situation. In fact, he had two solutions, one elegant, the other less so. A couple of years earlier, he had received a small package through the regular mail, sent from a mail-order firm in America to one of his post office boxes in Egypt. Inside the package were three knives of a most unusual type. They were almost entirely ceramic in construction, the only metal piece being the hinge pin on the clasp knife, but the other two knives, with fixed blades, contained no metal whatsoever. They were just as sharp and lethal as steel-bladed weapons, but were guaranteed to be invisible to metal detectors, and virtually undetectable by X-ray scanners as well. They were a gift to terrorists, and Abdul had been surprised just how easy it had been to purchase them.
Once inside the museum, he would have to get into the man’s office or laboratory, which would presumably be in a part of the building to which the public had no access. But the more elegant option would ensure he could walk into the building carrying both his pistol and one of his knives, and be told exactly where Ali Mohammed worked.
And that was the option he was going to take, despite one obvious disadvantage. But he knew he could do something about that.
36
Ali Mohammed read the latest email from Angela Lewis with growing concern. If she was right, and Mohammed suspected that she probably was, if only because of the events that had taken place in Cairo over the last couple of days, then the relic was too important to be forgotten about.
And that realization placed him in something of a quandary. Anum Husani had been adamant that he should just walk away, forget about the parchment altogether, for his own safety. But Mohammed was a scientist, and a part of his creed – part of the creed of every scientist, in theory if not always in practice – was the pursuit of knowledge. What Angela Lewis had suggested about the parchment was simply too compelling to ignore. He owed it to his own conscience, to the tenets of his profession, to investigate the truth of her suggestion.
What’s more, he had the tools to do so. Although he’d given the photographs he’d taken of the parchment to Husani, the originals were stored on the hard disk of his laptop.
For another couple of minutes he sat at his desk, silently contemplating the situation, then he nodded to himself. Decision made. He selected all the photographs of the relic, and sent them to his laser printer. Studying the images of the parchment on his laptop wasn’t really an option: he needed to have the pictures in his hands.
Printing the twenty or so pictures he’d taken would be a lengthy process, so he decided to reply to Angela’s email. When he’d finished the message, he paused, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Then, exhaling rapidly, he added a final short paragraph, and pressed Send.
But almost as soon as the email vanished from his screen, Mohammed had an abrupt change of heart. He muttered to himself, typed rapidly, and sent another message. He knew he really had no choice.
37
Mohammed was just about to gather up the printouts when there was a knock on his door and one of the administrative staff peered in.
‘Dr Mohammed?’
‘Yes. What is it?’
The admin officer appeared slightly perplexed by what he had to say.
‘I have a police officer here who wishes to ask you some questions. Would you like me to witness the interview, or call anyone on your behalf?’
‘What?’ Mohammed realized the man appeared to think he was in some kind of trouble. ‘No, of course not. Send him in.’
The man withdrew, and a moment later a smartly dressed man in a light-coloured suit stepped into the office, smiling apologetically.
‘I’m Inspector Dalani,’ he began, holding out a leather folder containing his identification, ‘and I think I may have given your staff member the wrong impression.’
He glanced back at the door, which was just closing behind him.
‘But I want to ask you some questions,’ Dalani continued, ‘and they relate to the murder of Mahmoud Kassim. May I sit down?’
Mohammed nodded.
‘Of course,’ he replied, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of his desk.
He stepped over to the printer, pulled out the sheets of paper and put them face-down on the end of his desk before he sat down again.
‘Now, how can I help?’ he asked, studying the man in front of him.
His visitor was apparently middle-aged and of average height and build, dark haired and with a tanned complexion and a thick black moustache: he looked remarkably similar to most Egyptian males. One slight incongruity was his face, which was rounder than Mohammed would have expected for a person of his build, but otherwise he was unremarkable. As he looked at him, the detective took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair, revealing his shoulder holster from which the butt of a pistol protruded. Then he rolled up his sleeves and sat down.
‘It’s really hot out there today,’ Dalani began. ‘Now, you’ve no doubt read about the brutal murder of Mr Kassim in the newspapers?’
Mohammed nodded, but didn’t interrupt.
‘One thing that the newspapers have not reported, simply because we have not released the information to them, is that Mr Kassim was tortured before he was killed. I think most of the news reports have suggested that he was hacked to death, but this is not in fact the case. The killer – and we believe there was only one man involved – used a knife to inflict enormous pain on the man before finally cutting his throat. I’m sorry if these details have alarmed you,’ he added, looking somewhat anxiously at Mohammed, who had noticeably blanched at the matter-of-fact tone and expressions Dalani had used to describe the slaying of the market trader.
‘No, it’s all right. I’m fine. Please continue. How can I help?’
Dalani nodded, took a small notebook out of his pocket and referred to what looked like a list written on one of the pages.
‘It’s fairly clear that Mr Kassim was tortured to make him divulge information – that’s the usual reason for torture, of course – and we think he was attacked because of a specific item he had come across in his dealings. We believe the killer was looking for a relic that Mr Kassim had bought or had found – an ancient piece of parchment.’
Mohammed nodded again. The Cairo police were obviously a lot better informed than either he or Husani had expected them to be. Dalani’s next words confirmed that.
‘We’re quite certain the murderer didn’t take the parchment from Mr Kassim because, according to some of the people we’ve interviewed about this, he had already sold it to another dealer’ – Dalani pause
d for a moment and glanced down at his notebook, to check the information – ‘a man named Anum Husani. So our concern in this matter is obvious. If the killer was prepared to slaughter Mahmoud Kassim just to obtain this ancient relic, then clearly he would have no hesitation in murdering Husani to achieve the same thing. We’ve had somewhat garbled accounts of shots being fired near Husani’s house, and of a chase through the streets in that part of the city, but no reports of anyone being hurt. However, Mr Husani seems to have completely vanished from sight, and that’s where we think you can help us.’
‘Me?’ Mohammed asked. ‘Why? And how?’
Again Dalani glanced at his notebook.
‘We understand that you are acquainted with Anum Husani?’
Mohammed inclined his head.
‘We aren’t close friends, but I know him, yes.’
‘In a professional capacity?’
Yes, Mohammed thought to himself. They’re very well informed.
‘In a way, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘I’m an expert on ancient documents, and Husani sometimes deals in scrolls and codices and the like, so almost inevitably our paths have crossed. I don’t work with him, because I’m employed by the museum, but I have sometimes advised him in a private capacity about relics he has come across in his trade.’
Dalani smiled slightly.
‘Good. So there are really only two questions I need to ask you. First, because it’s imperative that we find Mr Husani as quickly as possible so that we can protect him, do you have any idea where he is? And, second, did he consult you about this parchment he had obtained? Did he ask your opinion of it or show it to you or anything like that?’
Mohammed didn’t reply for a moment, his thoughts spinning as he tried to decide how much he should admit to. But he could, at least, be truthful in his answer to the detective’s first question.
‘I’ve seen Anum Husani a couple of times in the last few days,’ he admitted, ‘but I have no idea where he is now. You’ve obviously tried his house and the shop he runs in the souk?’
‘Yes, but he’s not at either premises. Obviously we’ve stationed officers at both the locations in case he returns. If he was hiding from this killer, have you any idea where else he might go?’
Again Mohammed could give a truthful answer.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea. Because of his business he’s acquainted with a lot of the other traders in the souk and elsewhere in Cairo, but I don’t know of any that he works with very closely. I think his family live somewhere on the outskirts of the city – he’s mentioned his brothers and parents to me a few times – but I don’t know where. Presumably you could locate them easily enough?’
Dalani nodded.
‘Other officers are already doing that,’ he said, ‘but I was more interested in any possible hiding places you might know of.’
Again Mohammed decided he could give a truthful answer to this, or at least tell the detective a half-truth.
‘As I said, I don’t know Husani that well, but if he knew he was being chased by this killer, my guess is that he’d try to get out of Cairo as quickly as he could.’
‘Where to? Where would he go?’
Mohammed shrugged his shoulders and raised his arms, palms upwards, a universal gesture.
‘I have no idea. I don’t think he has any friends or family outside the country he could visit. But as long as he has a passport he could probably go anywhere.’
Dalani nodded slowly.
‘That isn’t what I wanted to hear, but what you say does make sense. Now, Dr Mohammed, to the other matter. Did Husani talk to you about the parchment? Did he ask for your opinion, or for your help?’
Mohammed opened his mouth to reply, but before he could do so Dalani spoke again.
‘Could I just say first that we already know – and I can’t tell you exactly how because it’s confidential – that he contacted you about this relic. So all I want to know is what help, if any, you were able to give him.’
That information shocked Mohammed, and he was sure that his face showed his surprise. Despite Husani’s earlier warning to him, there was, he realized, very little he could do now except tell this police officer the truth.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Anum Husani did contact me about the parchment he had bought.’
‘And?’ Dalani prompted him.
‘It was very old and faded. Only a handful of the words on it – it was written in Latin – were legible. He asked me if I could use some of the equipment here at the museum to decipher the rest of the text, and I agreed to do what I could to help him. He let me have the parchment for a few hours, and I performed a number of operations on it. Non-invasive, of course.’
Dalani leaned forward.
‘And were your attempts successful?’ he asked.
‘I think so. I used a number of different techniques to enhance the writing, including bathing the parchment with infrared and ultraviolet illumination, and that certainly made more of the letters and words legible. But I haven’t had time to study the results yet.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I had an urgent call from Anum Husani asking me to return the relic to him, which I did immediately, of course.’
‘When?’
‘Just this morning. I’ve only just printed the photographs I took while I had the parchment in my possession.’
As he said this, Mohammed tapped the pile of pages beside him on the desk.
‘May I see them?’ Dalani asked.
‘Of course.’
Mohammed passed the pages across the desk to the detective, who flicked through them rapidly, glancing at each image for a few seconds.
‘Are these the only copies?’ he asked.
For the first time since the detective had walked into his office, Mohammed was slightly puzzled by the direction his questions were taking.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I gave one set to Husani, as he had asked me to do, because it was his parchment I was studying. And of course the originals are on my computer. I transferred them to the hard disk from the memory card in my camera.’
‘So that’s three sets in all?’ Dalani asked. ‘These, the copies Husani presumably has with him, and those on your computer. You mean your laptop, I assume?’
‘Yes. I don’t do private work on the museum’s desktop computer, obviously.’
‘Just the three sets?’ Dalani persisted.
‘No. There is one other,’ Mohammed admitted, with a trace of embarrassment. ‘There were some aspects of the parchment, or rather the few words on it that could be read with the naked eye, that puzzled me, and I consulted a colleague about it.’
‘Are you talking about somebody here at the museum?’
Mohammed shook his head.
‘No. A colleague in London, at the British Museum. She’d expressed her professional interest in the parchment and so I decided to send her copies of all the photographs I had taken of the relic. I sent the email just a few minutes before you arrived, actually.’
For a few seconds Dalani just stared at him across the desk. Then he shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was harsher, but the tone almost sorrowful.
‘Now that was a really stupid thing to do, Mohammed.’
A prickle of unease swept through the scientist.
‘What do you mean?’
Dalani smiled wolfishly at him.
‘I’m talking about your stupidity in sending photographs of the parchment to London. And your stupidity in getting involved with Husani in the first place. Some lessons are only learned the hard way, as you’re about to find out.’
Dalani stood up, and in that instant Mohammed belatedly realized two things. First, there was no way that the Cairo police could possibly have known that Husani had contacted him about the relic. And second, he had no idea what a genuine Cairo detective’s identification looked like.
But suddenly he knew exactly who the man sitting in front of him really was.
3
8
Desperately, Mohammed grabbed for the telephone, but the other man moved like a striking snake, leaping out of his chair and pinning his arm to the desk while with his other hand he pulled out a lethal-looking knife, the blade a strange shade of off-white.
Mohammed saw the knife and knew he had bare seconds to live. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could utter a single sound the knife slammed into the left side of his torso, just below his ribs, and a surge of agony swept through him. He gasped for air and his world collapsed into waves of unbearable pain as his killer twisted the knife in the wound.
Mohammed fell backwards, but his attacker followed him, leaping nimbly over the desk as the scientist crashed to the ground. He felt another searing pain as the knife was pulled out of his body, and stared up into the man’s dark, almost black, eyes.
‘Death improves a lot of people,’ the killer said, his tone light and conversational, ‘and I think you’re one of them.’
Less than a second later, the man slid the point of his ceramic knife into the side of Mohammed’s neck and drove it home, slicing through the arteries and oesophagus. A huge gout of blood spurted out of the fatal wound.
As the light faded from Mohammed’s eyes, the man stood up and inspected himself critically. There was a fair amount of blood on his right arm and hand – it was almost inevitable given what he had just done – but nothing anywhere on his clothing. That was why he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as soon as he’d entered the office. He’d known from the start exactly the way the interview was going to end, and had made his preparations accordingly. And at least he hadn’t had to torture or threaten the man to obtain the information he needed. His deception had worked perfectly. He’d extracted all the man’s knowledge of the parchment, and he would take the photographs of the relic, and the laptop, with him when he left the office. Another loose end had been snipped off.
