While listening, David extracted the tourist guidebook from his briefcase.
“So what can you tell us about this port called Berenice,” he asked as he leafed to a present-day map of Egypt. “You say it was located where exactly? On the southern Red Sea coast?”
Omar nodded.
“Near the current border with Sudan. It became a major shipping and trade port founded by Ptolemy II in 275 B.C.E. because of its favorable geographic position. Not only was it protected from the prevailing northern winds by a large peninsula, but it also possessed a natural deep harbor free of coral reefs. It was abandoned around 350 C.E., however, because of the economic chaos surrounding the decline of the Roman Empire that brought a virtual end to all long distance trade.”
David followed the coastline down with his finger until locating the name just above the Sudanese border.
“I see the place still exists.”
“Yes and no. A small city by that name is located a few miles close by—but the actual remains of the ancient port itself is scarcely more than a flat, dusty plain covered with fragments of potsherds. In the past several decades it’s been thoroughly worked over by a several archaeologists with no notable results.”
A pensive David now took time to study the map, thinking there was something decidedly wrong with what he was seeing. Granted, his theory of following the trail of Caesarian was purely hypothetical, but it relied solely on the origin of the scarred boy who brought the pearl necklace to Cairo—and this scenario was simply not adding up. Without a solid correlation between two events that took place twenty-one centuries apart, they had basically nothing.
Unless!
Maybe there was a parallel between both boys after all!
He looked over at Omar, knowing he was about to go out even further on an already precarious limb. Yet what else did they have to work with?
“If I had to venture a guess—and as this is all wild speculation anyway—I’d say the historians you just quoted might’ve been only half-right about Caesarian.”
Puzzled, Bayoumi narrowed his eyes. A quick look at a silent Elizabeth told him she was likewise in the dark as to where David was going.
“Half-right? What am I missing here?”
David organized his thoughts as he sipped at his drink.
“Well,” he finally said, “I can agree with them that Caesarian was most probably on his way to India to start a new life—but I think the evidence we have suggests it wasn’t to Berenice to board ship.”
Omar cocked his head.
“Evidence? I’m sorry. Now I really am confused?”
“Okay,” smiled David, “maybe ‘evidence’ is a bit too strong a word. But I keep thinking about that train ticket stub that Haleem said came out of the boy’s pocket. He was quite adamant about the clarity of his recollection, saying it was issued in Qena.”
“Meaning what?”
“Just stay with me for a moment. If we’re basing everything on the theory that where the mysterious boy came from and acquired the necklace is somehow tied to Caesarian’s attempt to flee Egypt for India—then logistics makes a lie out of it being from the town of Berenice. Look here at the map. When you draw a line from that town across to the Nile where he would’ve purchased his train ticket to Cairo, it comes out to be Aswan—and that’s a good hundred miles farther south of Qena.”
Elizabeth pointed out what she saw as an obvious flaw in his logic.
“Perhaps he first bought a ticket from Aswan to Qena,” she said, “then purchased another in Qena in order to continue on to Cairo. The only stub he still had with him was the one Haleem saw.”
David shook his head.
“I don’t believe so. Remember, Haleem also told us this young man seemed exceptionally determined in what he was doing. And intelligent. Why buy a train ticket twice when he could’ve just as easily bought the entire trip to Cairo from Aswan. I have to think he boarded the train only once—and that was out of Qena.”
Omar nodded, but without any visible enthusiasm.
“You know, David, even if you’re right, that could also mean Qena was his sole point of origin. It’s a very large city. And if that’s true, then we haven’t a chance in hell of ever finding out where he got that necklace.”
“Perhaps, but aren’t you forgetting something? Take another look at the map. If we’re adhering to a possible Caesarian connection—and we’ve nothing else to work with at this point—when you draw a line over from Qena to the Red Sea coast, where does it end up?”
Bayoumi did so.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath. “It goes straight to the small town of El Quseir!”
A puzzled Elizabeth looked from David to Bayoumi.
“Okay, someone here tell me what’s so—”
“El Quseir,” a buoyant Omar explained, “is an ancient Egyptian port known in Ptolemaic times as White Harbor. Its history as a shipping and trading center goes back even further. Almost five thousand years, in fact, and much of it with Ethiopia and India beyond. Hence this makes it a very positive Caesarian connection. If the young pharaoh was instructed to depart Egypt as soon as physically possible, I can see where that would’ve been the quickest and most viable avenue for him.”
His grin expanded.
“We’ve got a lot of leg-work investigating to pursue, but thanks to your husband, we just might—might—actually be zeroing in on something here!”
Elizabeth’s hopes were visibly rising as she turned to David.
“Does this mean we’re now going to El Quseir?” she asked. “You think we’ve still got a chance at solving this?”
David smiled at the decisive manner of her questions. He knew her nature was usually one of sensible pragmatism—yet he likewise knew she wasn’t a person who ever quit on any goal that totally intrigued her. Tenacity was just another of the many attributes that made her so endearing.
“If we’re all in agreement, then I say yes. I believe it’s worth a shot.”
He glanced at his wrist as he picked up his car keys. It was reasonably early, only a few minutes after 8pm; more than ample time for him to accomplish one more task that he now deemed critical if they were to continue.
“I want you both to work out whatever flight and hotel arrangements are needed for an early departure tomorrow. Whatever you come up will suit me fine. Omar, if you’ve got any trusted associates in the El Quseir area you believe may be of assistance to us, I suggest you contact them tonight, okay?”
“Will do.”
“Where are you going?” asked Elizabeth.
“Back to Haleem’s apartment,” said David. “It now strikes me the old fellow probably has additional information we’re going to need—information he probably doesn’t even realize can be of significant help to us. The trick will be finagling it out of him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Following Day. One Hour Before Noon
A disgruntled Samir crushed out his cigarette in the van’s overfilled ashtray, then cracked his door enough to empty the contents onto the paved lot before slamming it shut. For the fourth day in a row the looseness in his bowels continued to trouble him, his recurring nausea only further aggravated by a deep sense of frustration. After the initial promise of yesterday’s events, he felt he was definitely being cheated—and in his estimation, with no comprehensible reason!
Nothing was going anywhere near as he’d hoped.
He still seethed at Abdel’s arbitrary decision to station other surveillance people to watch the Marriott—and doubtless all of them at better pay! By rights, he figured the round-the-clock assignment to monitor the hotel should’ve at least included him. After all, he was the one who identified Manning and his woman going into Haleem’s apartment earlier! He was the one who learned where they were staying!
So what the fucking hell! Didn’t this matter for anything?
Apparently not.
Instead, here he was back parked in his usual spot, bored out of
his skull as he kept tabs on an old bastard who should’ve had the decency to die years ago! Only worsening his mood—as if somehow mocking him—the morning heat was building even more rapidly than normal, setting the stage for yet another brutally hot afternoon.
Where was his reward in all this?
The temptation to call Abdel and voice his rising anger became such that he actually pulled out his cell phone—only to then place it on the seat. As miserable as he felt, common sense prevailed. Despite his strained emotions, he simply couldn’t risk losing his meager employment.
Unknown to him, he was about to lose far more than his job.
Off to his right, a nondescript tramp wearing a thin and soiled galabia had gradually come into view across the crowded street. Unfortunately for Samir, his not taking better note of the man’s arrival was a mistake he wouldn’t live long enough to regret.
In Samir’s defense, the bent-over figure drew scant attention from anyone else either as he paused to peruse a pile of trash. The presence of such poverty stricken individuals wasn’t an uncommon sight in the city. A ragged hood formed from his frayed robe was flipped up from his shoulders, its apparent purpose to shield his head against the sun’s direct rays. Showing no discernible age, he might as well have been invisible—which was precisely as the man intended. As a general rule, he knew very few people ever felt comfortable making eye contact with derelicts.
Thus Samir likewise ignored the man completely—but only up to the point where the shuffling figure crossed the street alongside his van and abruptly jerked open the passenger door. Within a split second, the tramp shocked him even further by brazenly slipping inside, closing the door behind him.
“What the fu—?”
Samir’s outrage ended abruptly with the realization that the man held a large revolver in his hand—and it was pointed straight into his side. Even more ominous to him, the end of the barrel was equipped with a perforated metal cylinder commonly referred to as a silencer. The combination labeled its owner as a very serious man.
“Make no sudden moves,” said the figure, “and no harm will come to you. Just do as I say.” He paused only slightly. “Nod if you understand me.”
It was as much the tone of the man’s voice as it was the close proximity of the gun aimed at his exposed rib cage that made Samir an instant believer. Though spoken softly, the words came from someone who seemed accustomed to issuing orders—hardly from the lips of a common street vagrant.
Samir swallowed, inclining his head once.
With his free hand, the man then picked up the cell phone off the seat.
“Excellent. Now down to business. You and I are going to send your boss a message—one I sincerely hope Abdel will recognize and take seriously.”
Samir blinked in confusion.
“You—you want me to—to send—?”
“Oh, not at all,” said the man, the barrel of his gun now moving even closer. “Perhaps you misunderstood me. I will do the actual sending. You, I’m afraid, are going to be the message.”
“What—?”
The muted sound of the revolver’s three rapid discharges barely escaped the confines of the van as the bullets entered Samir’s upper chest from the side. It was a tight pattern, instantly forming a circular bloom of red on his sweat-streaked shirt. Eyes wide with shock, he was already dead as he slumped against the driver’s door. Two of the 9mm bullets had passed straight through his lung and effectively exploded his heart.
The man replaced the revolver into a hidden holster beneath his galabia before casually taking a few moments to check out the passing locals. The patience to do this necessary task required a certain amount of discipline on his part, for Samir’s bowels had already begun to void, the foul smell filling the van becoming extremely unpleasant. Nothing he saw in the street appeared to be the least bit amiss—which now left only the second half of his objective.
Pulling Samir’s face around, he leaned over and inserted his index fingers deep alongside the body’s staring eyes, popping both orbs from their sockets and letting them dangle grotesquely on his cheeks.
This accomplished, he used the dead man’s cell phone to digitally photograph his handiwork. He then selected Abdel’s private number from the contacts list and attached the image, hitting ‘send’. After pocketing the phone for later disposal, he carefully readjusted the cloth over his head, confidant that the current patriarch of the Khafaghi crime organization was experienced enough to understand the old Arab ‘one-time’ warning conveyed by this grim message. Satisfied, the man casually exited the van and disappeared into the normal flow of passing traffic.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At the same time as Samir met his violent demise, David exited Hurghada International Airport roughly 370 miles southeast of Cairo to begin the estimated two-hour journey down the Red Sea coast to the city of El Quseir. It was 12:10, their rented vehicle a tan Nissan SUV with more than adequate room for all three of them, plus luggage. Of perhaps equal importance to them, the A/C system worked perfectly, the intense heat outside rapidly climbing.
Elizabeth reclined in the rear and dozed while Omar rode up front with David, the better to consult the road map and hash over the previous evening’s events. While the day’s travel and lodging arrangements were made by Elizabeth and Omar, David had used the opportunity to drive back to Haleem’s apartment for a another one-on-one with his wily, old friend. It was unplanned, but based on their current hypotheses regarding the primary source of the ancient necklace, he suspected Haleem had the wherewithal to provide more information than previously revealed.
The logic behind this seemed sound.
Earlier in the day, when Haleem admitted to screwing Abdel around on several black-market deals arising from the recent vandalism at the Egyptian Museum, David picked up the distinct impression that perhaps Haleem may have walked away from his forced retirement in the Khafaghi organization with something more valuable than just his dignity.
At least David hoped as much.
As it turned out, his instincts were right on the mark.
It required considerable convincing, but he’d eventually persuaded his aged friend to reluctantly pull a thick, tattered ledger from his wall safe, one that he referred to as his personal diary. Though not by any means a complete record of all his many years working as Sharif’s loyal right-hand man, it did, nonetheless, contain a plethora of details covering a broad spectrum of illegal transactions; dates, artifact descriptions, names of sellers, buyers—it was all there, going back over sixty years and more!
As a dedicated archaeologist, it appalled David to read firsthand the true volume of ancient items that had forever disappeared into uncounted private collections. But he was also pragmatic enough to accept whatever was done couldn’t now be amended. As fascinating as the ledger was, he tried to stay focused, his goal to extract specific information on what may—or may not—be pertinent to their present investigation. Just knowing that the bearer of the remarkable necklace back in 1973 probably came from Qena wasn’t near enough for them to continue the trail. They needed something more to go on.
Anything!
By Haleem’s description, the seller was a mere teenager. Common sense said he must’ve acquired the artifact from someone else—and by the deep laceration on his face, not without a fierce struggle.
So the question became—from where and whom?
It took David better than an hour to narrow down a list of names available for consideration from the records. Out of necessity, he limited his selections to only those people active in the general time frame when Sharif acquired the necklace. By rights, the journal would’ve properly required a minimum of two or three days of careful study to fully absorb everything it held—but this wasn’t going to happen. His access was extremely limited, for a nervous Haleem wasn’t about to allow it out of his apartment for any reason. He then gave the man his cell phone number feeling lucky to have gleaned what possibilities he could acquire.
&n
bsp; That all occurred yesterday evening.
Now Omar thoughtfully perused David’s notebook yet again as they drove south towards El Quseir. He’d already done so a half-dozen times during their short morning flight down from Cairo aboard the DeCaylus Corp jet.
“You’ve got a total of—what?—four names here,” he mused aloud. “All surnames with the sole exception of one. A Mustafa Sayed. That by itself is a bit unusual, don’t you think?”
“Not really, Omar. Unlike all the other customers over the years, Sayed wasn’t much concerned about maintaining any sort of anonymity. He was an old and trusted friend of Sharif, doing regular business with him throughout the sixties, seventies, and part of the eighties. Though Haleem believed he resided somewhere down in the Luxor area—outside the parameters we set—I thought it best to keep him on our short list of potentials. According to our friend, he consistently brought up good quality pieces. Nothing spectacular, mind you; mostly engraved hieroglyphic stone tablets from the early dynastic period, but all highly marketable. Haleem speculated perhaps Sayed had access to a few secret tombs of the minor nobility and was looting them at his leisure.”
Omar asked the obvious question.
“If he continuously specialized in this type of period Egyptian tablets and was outside our parameters, then why bother putting him on the list?”
David gave a slight shrug.
“We probably shouldn’t, I suppose, but I kept thinking about those Greco Roman ruins at Dendera sixty miles north of Luxor in the Qena area. Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t one of the Ptolemaic temples there show a rare depiction of both Cleopatra and Caesarian?”
“That’s true.”
“Well, it may be grabbing at straws, but I figure this alone makes Sayed worth a closer look. Who knows? Perhaps Haleem was wrong and the man actually came from El Quseir.”
Omar considered the logic, tenuous though it was.
“I suppose,” he finally agreed. “Yet it’s a definite stretch. The Dendera complex has been studied and worked over by virtually generations of archaeologists since before the last century. If we keep to our El Quseir theory, it doesn’t really seem to gel with your scenario.” He paused. “However, on the other side of the coin, it’s at least a back-door connection to the elusive Caesarian that might become significant. There just aren’t that many. Dendera is a considerable distance from the Red Sea, but not so far inland as to put it completely out of play.”
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