by Paul Sussman
He stopped and straightened. Freya waited for more, but it didn’t come.
‘That’s it?’
She couldn’t disguise her disappointment. After all the build-up, she had been expecting, if not a blinding revelation, at least some clarification, some hint as to what was going on and why it was going on. Instead everything seemed to be even more confused and opaque than it had been when Flin began his explanation. Eye of Khepri, mouth of whatever it was, curses and serpents … it meant nothing to her, none of it. She felt as if she had been led through an elaborate maze only to re-emerge precisely where she’d started, without ever getting close to the centre.
‘That’s it?’ she repeated. ‘That’s everything.’
Flin gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Like I said, there’s not a lot of information out there. You now know about as much as I do.’
There was a sudden hubbub as a group of tourists trooped into the room, led by a woman holding up a folded umbrella. They walked straight through and out of the door at the other side without so much as a glance at the room’s contents. Freya stared down at the papyrus, then reached out and took the photograph from Flin’s hand.
‘If this oasis is impossible to find …’
‘How come Rudi Schmidt’s been there?’ Flin finished the sentence for her. ‘That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Not the least perplexing aspect of the whole Zerzura-wehat seshtat story is that despite the oasis being “hidden” …’ – he lifted his hands and tweaked his fingertips to indicate inverted commas – ‘people do nonetheless seem to stumble on it occasionally. Rudi Schmidt for one. And whoever provided the information on which the description in the Kitab al-Kanuz was based for another – Bedouin probably: there have long been rumours that certain desert tribes know of its location, although personally I’ve never been able to corroborate that.’
‘So how?’ Freya asked. ‘How do they find it?’
Flin threw up his hands.
‘God knows. The Sahara’s a mysterious place, mysterious things happen. Mugs like me spend our whole lives searching for the oasis, and someone else just happens to wander into it. There’s no rhyme or reason to the thing. Believe it or not the most convincing explanation I ever heard was from a psychic, a very strange woman who lived in a tent down in Aswan, claimed she was a reincarnation of Pepi II’s wife, Queen Neith. She told me that the oasis had had spells of concealment cast on it, that the harder a person looked, the harder it would be to find, that only those who weren’t actually looking for it would ever discover its whereabouts. For which gem of wisdom I paid her fifty pounds.’
He gave a mirthless grunt and glanced at his watch.
‘Come on, we should be getting back.’
They took a last look at the scrawled papyrus and started retracing their steps through the museum. A bell sounded somewhere, signalling that it was closing time.
‘Did Alex know about all this?’ Freya asked as they descended the stairs to the ground floor. ‘The oasis, the Benben Stone?’
Flin nodded.
‘We spent a lot of time together out at the Gilf Kebir and I used to bore her with it over the campfire. Although to be fair she gave as good as she got. If I never hear another thing about lacustrine sediments I won’t be overly disappointed.’
They reached the bottom of the stairs and started back through the Old Kingdom galleries. Droves of visitors streamed towards the main entrance, herded along by uniformed guards.
‘How important is the oasis?’ Freya asked. ‘I mean, is it … you know … ?’
‘Full of jewels and treasure?’ Flin smiled. ‘I very much doubt it. The Kitab al-Kanuz claims anyone who finds it will discover great riches, but that’s almost certainly hyperbole. Some trees and a lot of ancient ruins – that’s all that’s going to be there. Academically of huge significance, but to people who live in the real world …’
He shrugged.
‘… not really important at all.’
‘The Benben Stone?’ she asked.
‘Again, to egg-heads like me it would be a massive discovery. One of the totemic symbols of ancient Egypt – absolutely massive. When all’s said and done, however, it’s just a piece of stone, albeit a unique one. It’s not like it’s made of solid gold or anything. There are a lot more commercially valuable artefacts out there.’
They had passed beneath the domed rotunda and were back in the gallery lined with giant sarcophagi. Freya stopped, held up the photograph of the mysterious gateway and asked the question that had been on her mind ever since she first clapped eyes on it.
‘So why would someone kill my sister for this?’
Flin looked at her, then away again. It was a moment before he spoke.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Freya, but I just don’t know.’
Re-entering the museum’s administrative section, they climbed the spiral staircase up to the photographic department. The darkroom door was still closed.
‘How’s it going, Majdi?’ Flin called, knocking.
No response. He knocked again, harder.
‘Majdi? You in there?’
Still nothing. He gave one final knock, then grasped the handle and opened the door. There was a fractional pause as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then:
‘Oh God! Oh no!’
Freya was behind Flin, her view blocked by his tall frame. Stepping forward, she looked around him. Her hand shot up to her mouth as she realized what he was looking at, and a horrified gagging sound issued from deep within her throat. Majdi was crumpled on the darkroom floor, his eyes wide open, his throat slit from ear to ear. There was blood everywhere, a viscous black wash of it – on the Egyptian’s face, his shirt, his hands, pooled all around his head like a halo.
‘Oh Majdi,’ Flin groaned, thumping a fist against the doorframe. ‘Oh my friend, what have I done?’
‘Salaam.’
Flin and Freya spun. The twins were sitting on a sofa on the far side of the room. One of them was holding a strip of developed film, the other a blood-smeared flick-knife. Both were blank-faced and unperturbed, as if the scene in the darkroom was no more shocking to them than the sight of someone sipping tea or playing ping-pong. A thud of feet and four more men appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, blocking off any escape. One had a black eye and a grotesquely swollen nose and lip – the heavy Flin had punched in the lift back at the American University. He shouted something to the twins and they nodded. Coming forward, he squared up to Flin, leering at him, then slammed his huge hands down on the Englishman’s shoulders and drove a knee viciously into his groin.
‘Ta’ala mus zobry, ya-ibn el-wiskha,’ he growled as Flin slumped to the floor, gasping in agony. ‘Suck my cock, you son-of-a-bitch.’
For a moment Freya was too shocked to react. Then, balling her fist, she swung for the man. Her punch didn’t get close to connecting as her arm was seized from behind and yanked up her back. The photograph was ripped out of her hand. She struggled and kicked and swore, but they were too strong for her and when a pistol muzzle was pressed against her temple she knew it was pointless trying to resist and gave up. Still groaning in pain, Flin was hoisted to his feet and frisked, his mobile phone pulled from his pocket and crushed underfoot. He and Freya were pushed towards the staircase, the twins following on behind, the one with the flick-knife wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief as he went. As they started down the stairs Freya craned her neck, looking back first at Majdi’s blood-drenched corpse, and then at Flin.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice hoarse with shock, her face grey. ‘I should never have got you involved. Either of you.’
Flin shook his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, barely able to get the words out he was in so much pain. ‘Should never have got you involved.’
Before she could ask what he meant one of the thugs growled something and pushed the pistol harder into her neck, forcing her to look forward again. After that the only sound was the
clatter of their feet on the metal stairs and the agonized rasp of Flin’s breathing.
Outside the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities Cy Angleton sat on a plinth in a corner of the sculpture garden, watching as Flin and Freya were hustled out of a side door. Although Brodie was hobbling badly, and the men around them were pressing in slightly closer than was strictly necessary, there was nothing obviously untoward about the group of which they were a part, and no one – neither the tourists thronging the garden nor the white-uniformed police sentries stationed at intervals around its perimeter – gave them a second look.
Angleton alone stared at them, gazing intently as they passed through the gardens and out of the museum’s main gate. He gave it a moment, then followed, tracking them as they turned right along the pedestrianized street in front of the museum, moving away from Midan Tahrir. Taxi touts and trinket sellers buzzed around him, offering postcards, carvings and the inevitable ‘special trip no one else offer to Pyramid and papyrus factory’. Angleton waved them away, trailing the group past the Hilton Hotel and down to the Corniche el-Nil, where two cars – a black BMW and a silver Hyundai people carrier – were waiting, engines running. The twins climbed into the BMW while the two westerners were jostled into the Hyundai and the door was slammed behind them. As it did, Brodie happened to glance up, his eye momentarily catching Angleton’s before the convoy moved off into the evening traffic.
‘You want antiquity, mister?’
A young boy, no more than six or seven years old, had come up beside the American, proffering a crude and obviously modern carving of a cat.
‘Twenty Egyptian pound,’ said the boy. ‘Very ancient. You want?’
Angleton said nothing, his eyes locked on the cars as they sped away down the Corniche.
‘Ten Egyptian pound. Very good carving. You want, mister?’
‘What I want,’ murmured Angleton, ‘are some goddam answers.’
He watched until the cars were out of sight. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of notes and thrust them at the boy before turning and lumbering back in the direction of the museum.
‘You want go Pyramid, mister? You want go perfume shop? Real Egypt perfume. Very cheap, very good for wife.’
Angleton just waved a hand over his shoulder and continued walking.
In the grounds of the American Embassy Molly Kiernan paced anxiously up and down, her ID card flapping on its chain around her neck, her eyes flicking between her mobile phone and the Embassy’s north gate. All staff and visitors had to pass through here and occasionally the door of the gate’s security lobby would swing open and someone would emerge. Every time they did Kiernan stopped and stared, only to shake her head and resume her pacing, patting her phone against her thigh as if trying to force it to ring. Twice it did, Kiernan answering before the phone had even finished its first chime. The calls weren’t what she was hoping for, and, politely but firmly, she cut them short.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘What’s happening here? Where are you? Come on!’
CAIRO – ZAMALEK
‘And how exactly will you get them out of the country, Mr Girgis?’
‘I believe that is what you call a trade secret, Monsieur Colombelle. All you need to know is that the sculptures will arrive in Beirut at the agreed time on the agreed date. And for the agreed sum of money.’
‘And they’re 18th Dynasty? You can confirm that absolutely?’
‘I deliver what I promise to deliver. You have been told the pieces are 18th Dynasty and that is exactly what they are. I do not deal in fakes or reproductions.’
‘With the Akhenaten cartouche?’
‘With the Akhenaten cartouche, the Nefertiti cartouche and everything else that was described to you by my antiquities expert. Unfortunately Mr Usman is engaged on other business this evening and unable to join us, but rest assured the goods will more than live up to your expectations, if not exceed them.’
Monsieur Colombelle – a small, dapper Frenchman with unnaturally black hair – let out a satisfied chuckle.
‘We’re going to make a lot of money, here, Mr Girgis. A lot of money.’
Girgis opened his hands.
‘That is the only reason I do business. If I might recommend, the lobster ravioli is particularly good.’
The Frenchman peered at his menu while Girgis sipped at a glass of water and glanced across the table at his two colleagues. Boutros Salah, a jowelly, thickset man with a bristling moustache and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and Mohammed Kasri – tall, bearded, hook-nosed – met his gaze and all three gave a faint nod to acknowledge the deal was in the bag.
The dinner was an unwelcome distraction for Girgis, but Colombelle had flown into Cairo specially and with his clients waiting for delivery of the stolen sculptures it couldn’t very well be put off. The sum involved – $2 million – was not enormous – negligible when compared with the whole Zerzura thing – but business was business and so the meeting had gone ahead. The four of them had worked through the details of the deal while underneath the table Girgis had tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for news of what was on the camera film, whether it would lead them to the oasis. He had hoped for a result sooner than this – his people had been looking at the negatives for over an hour now – but was trying to stay calm. At least they had the negatives, and Brodie and the girl as well, which was a step in the right direction. He took another sip of water, checked his mobile and started to peruse his own menu, trying to take his mind off things. As he did so a waiter approached and, leaning down, whispered into his ear. Girgis nodded. Pushing his chair back, he stood.
‘You must forgive me, Monsieur Colombelle, but something unexpected has come up and I am required elsewhere. My colleagues will answer any further questions you might have and, should you wish it, arrange entertainment once the meal is over. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.’
He shook hands with the Frenchman, who looked slightly nonplussed by the abruptness of his host’s departure, and, without further ado, turned and left the restaurant. Outside his limousine was waiting. The driver held open the rear door and a plump, dishevelled man with a pudding-bowl haircut and thick-lensed plastic spectacles shifted along the back seat to make room for Girgis: Ahmed Usman, his antiquities specialist.
‘So?’ asked Girgis once the door was closed.
Usman drummed the tips of his fingers together. There was something curiously mole-like in the action.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid, Mr Girgis. Half the film was spoilt, and the other half …’
He handed over a sheaf of A4 photographic prints.
‘Useless, completely useless. See, all the images are from inside the oasis – nothing to help identify the location. It’s like trying to find a house in the middle of a city when all you’ve got to go on is a picture of the bathroom. Completely useless.’
Girgis flicked through the shots, his mouth curled into something midway between a grimace and a snarl.
‘Could you have missed something?’
Usman shrugged, patted the tips of his fingers together again.
‘I’ve gone through them extremely carefully, so I’d say not. Then again …’ He gave a nervous laugh.
‘… I’m not a world authority on the subject.’
‘Brodie?’
‘Professor Brodie is the world authority.’
‘Then I think it’s time to go and have a discussion with him,’ said Girgis, handing the photographs back. Picking up the limousine’s intercom phone, he issued instructions to the driver.
‘I really can’t see him helping,’ said Usman as they started to move away. ‘Even if he managed to spot something. From what I’ve heard he’s a rather …’
Another nervous laugh.
‘… stubborn character.’
Girgis adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, brushed something off his jacket.
‘Believe me, once Manshiet Nasser’s finished with Professor Brodie there’s nothi
ng he won’t do for us. He’ll be pleading to help. Begging.’
CAIRO – MANSHIET NASSER
‘Gotcha,’ murmured Freya, trapping the cockroach under the toe of her trainer. Its exoskeleton made a moist, crunching sound as she slowly ground it into the floor, smearing it across the dusty concrete, its yellowy-brown innards joining those of the other roaches she’d dispatched over the last hour.
‘You OK?’ asked Flin.
She shrugged.
‘Not really. How’s the … ?’ She nodded towards his crotch.
‘I’ll live. Although I don’t think I’ll be doing any cycling for a while.’
She gave a weak smile.
‘What do you think they’re going to do to us?’
It was Flin’s turn to shrug.
‘On recent evidence, nothing particularly pleasant. They’d know better than me.’
He nodded towards the three men sitting silently opposite, sub machine-guns balanced in their laps.
‘Hey guys, what have you got planned?’ he called across at them.
No reply.
‘I guess it must be a surprise,’ he said, hunching forward and rubbing his temples.
They were on the top storey of what appeared to be a partially completed building – a large, shadowy space illuminated by a single fluorescent strip light lying flat on the ground close to the guards. Although the floor, ceiling, staircase and load-bearing pillars were all in place – bare concrete, with rusted iron reinforcing rods protruding here and there like fossilized branches – there were only three walls. The room’s fourth side was open to the night, a gaping void staring out over the twinkling lights of Cairo like a cave mouth set high up in a cliff. Flin and Freya were at this end of the space, sitting on a pair of upturned crates. Behind them the floor came to an abrupt end and there was a long, sheer drop down to the street below. Their captors were in the centre of the room, beside the staircase. Even without the wall, the westerners were to all intents and purposes imprisoned.
