by James Becker
Bronson nodded and turned away from the ruins of the temple towards the road. As he did so, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure wearing a white shirt and light-coloured trousers ducking swiftly out of sight behind a wall on the opposite side of the road.
He felt a warning stab of surprise. Unlike the citizens of Cairo, the residents of el-Hiba clearly didn’t see that many foreign tourists, and he and Angela had been objects of interest ever since they’d arrived there. But most of the people they’d seen had simply stared at them with frank and not unfriendly curiosity. Maybe that man — and Bronson was reasonably certain the figure had been male — was just shy. The only odd thing was that it looked as if he’d been holding a pair of binoculars or perhaps a camera in his hand. Certainly he’d been clutching a small black object. And his Western-style dress was unusual in a place where most people seemed to be wearing the more traditional Egyptian dishdasha or jellabah.
‘What is it?’ Angela asked.
‘I think there’s a man over there watching us.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘I know what I saw. You stay here. I’ll go and check.’
But Angela grabbed his arm with both hands to stop him. ‘No, Chris. Let’s just get away from here, right now. It might be that priest again.’
Bronson nodded reluctantly, and looked back up the road to where the car was parked. ‘You start running,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Angela took to her heels, heading back the way they’d come.
Bronson stared across the road for a few seconds more, then followed her.
Two minutes later, Bronson spun the steering wheel of the hire car and powered down the street and away from el-Hiba, the car trailing a cloud of dust as he headed for the open road and Cairo.
37
While Bronson drove, Angela sat in the passenger seat of the Peugeot, transferred the memory card from her camera to the slot on the laptop and copied all the photographs she’d taken of the hieroglyphics on to the computer’s hard disk. The LCD screen on her camera offered reasonably good quality, but she needed the better resolution of the laptop screen to be sure of what she was seeing.
And what she was looking at wasn’t what she’d hoped for. There was nothing in any of the surviving sections of the inscriptions in the temple that suggested Shoshenq had seized the Ark of the Covenant. In fact, quite the contrary.
‘Oh, damn,’ she muttered, as she looked at one particular image.
‘What is it?’
‘On this picture there’s a readable section of hieroglyphics, just a few words that probably came from the middle and end of a sentence — the rest of the inscription’s long gone. If I’m interpreting it correctly, the top line says something like “the gold from the temple”. That sounds to me like part of a description of Shoshenq’s foray into Judea or Judah. We know he was paid off by Rehoboam, who gave the Egyptians the treasures of the Temple.
‘But the second line finishes with “sacred box” — that’s as close a translation as I can get — “which remained”. As far as we know, the Ark of the Covenant was in the Temple of Jerusalem when Shoshenq’s forces entered Judea, and “sacred box” would be a reasonable description of it. This would mean that the Egyptians may not have seized the Ark. They allowed the priests to keep it in the Temple: the “sacred box which remained”. And so-’
‘We’ve been looking in the wrong place,’ Bronson said, finishing it off for her. ‘Shoshenq didn’t seize it, so he can’t have taken it to Tanis or anywhere else. Is there anything else there?’ Bronson asked, glancing sideways at the laptop screen. ‘Hang on — I’m getting distracted by all the pictures. I think I’d better stop for a few minutes.’
He pulled the car to a rapid stop just off the road. The driver of a heavily laden lorry which had been following far too close behind gave an angry blast on his horn, but Bronson ignored him and turned towards Angela.
‘There’s nothing else in these hieroglyphics that even mention the Ark,’ she said. ‘These inscriptions, for example, seem to be part of fairly standard texts honouring Amun, and there are a couple that I think are praising Shoshenq’s courage and leadership. Again, pretty much what you’d expect to find in a temple erected by the reigning pharaoh to one of the most important Egyptian gods.’
She pressed the cursor control key and started flicking back through the other pictures on the computer’s hard drive. One of the images showed a dark-haired man standing beside a chair.
‘Who’s that?’ Bronson asked, as he glanced down at the picture.
Angela had already moved on to a different image, but then scrolled back and looked at the screen. Then she laughed.
‘That’s the man who started this hare running. That’s one of the paintings of Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax as a young man, one of the two we were looking for. I told you there were decent-quality photographs of the paintings in Bartholomew’s box of goodies. They were almost A3 size and folded, in fact, and I scanned them both in my office at the museum.’
Bronson glanced down at the screen of the laptop Angela was holding, and a sudden thought struck him.
‘We never really worked out why he had those pictures painted, did we?’ Bronson asked. ‘I mean, we guessed from that remark about “the Montgomerys” that Bartholomew had hidden the text of the parchment in them somewhere, in a cavity in the frame or something, but why did he choose those subjects? Himself as a young man wearing — what — a Red Indian outfit in one and dressed like an Indian prince in the other.’
‘Nobody seems to have any idea. Maybe it was just an old man’s vanity, wanting to see an image of how he would have looked in his late twenties.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe it was something else. Let me take a look at that.’
Angela looked at him in surprise, but obediently handed over the laptop.
Bronson stared at the screen for a few seconds. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked. ‘The one in which he’s dressed like a Red Indian?’
Angela leaned across and flicked through the pictures until she found the correct one. ‘There,’ she said.
Bronson studied the photograph, then nodded in satisfaction and passed the computer back to Angela. He checked his mirrors and pulled the car on to the road, accelerating to match speed with the traffic approaching them from behind.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘I think I know where Bartholomew hid the text of the parchment he found,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself.
‘But we know that: in those paintings. The paintings that we haven’t the slightest chance of finding.’
‘No. I mean, I know exactly where Bartholomew hid the text.’
38
Killian had got lucky. He’d gone back to his hotel, grabbed a copy of the local phone directory from the reception desk downstairs, and taken it, along with a street map of eastern Cairo, up to his room. Then he’d started from the airport and worked his way outwards, calling each of the major hotels he had located, asking to be connected to Mr Bronson’s room. It wasn’t the commonest name in the world, and the receptionist at the fifteenth hotel he rang told him that the guest he was looking for had been out of his room all day.
It was as easy as that.
Killian packed his bags and paid his bill, then set off towards the hotel where he now knew Bronson and Angela were staying. He drove past the building, then pulled in to the side of the road a hundred yards or so beyond it and looked back.
The hotel was situated on a reasonably straight section that offered good visibility both ways, and Bronson, of course, could approach it from either direction. But the main road ran along one end of the street and that, logically, would be where Bronson would be most likely to appear, so that was where Killian decided to wait. It was essential he spotted his quarry before they arrived at the hotel — once they got inside the building they’d be out of his reach.
Killian pulled out into the traffic and picked a vacant lot close t
o the main road where he would see any cars turning into the road. He locked the car, walked down the street to a small store where he bought bottled water and several sealed packets of biscuits and cakes, then returned to his vehicle. He opened all the car’s windows, and placed his food and drink on the passenger seat beside him. He opened the bonnet and skilfully disabled the Renault’s air bag safety system. Then he took a pair of binoculars from his pocket and placed them on the dashboard, where he could reach them easily. Finally, he fastened his seat belt and left the key in the ignition, so that he could start the car and drive away at a moment’s notice.
Then he settled down to wait.
39
Bronson paused and glanced at Angela, who was giving him her full attention, and then some.
‘Go on, then,’ Angela said, obviously irritated. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Where is it?’
At that moment her mobile rang, and she rummaged in her handbag to retrieve it. Before she answered the call, she looked at the screen.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, ‘it’s Roger Halliwell, probably ringing to find out where I am.’
‘I thought you’d left him a message at the museum, saying you were taking a few days’ leave?’
‘I did. Maybe that’s the problem. Strictly speaking, I should have got his approval first.’
‘That is the usual routine,’ Bronson said mildly.
‘Anyway,’ Angela said, ‘he can wait. I’m up to date with everything, and I’ve never known anything to happen in the museum that could possibly qualify as urgent. I’ll call him tomorrow.’
But as she replaced the mobile in her handbag, they heard the familiar beep indicating that a text message had been received.
Angela again looked at the screen. ‘It’s from Roger,’ she said, ‘and he sounds really pissed: “Call me now, vital.” Maybe I’d better give him a bell. Can you pull over somewhere — it’s not that good a signal.’
As Bronson eased the Peugeot off the road again, Angela selected Halliwell’s number from her contacts list.
‘Roger, it’s Angela. I got your-’ She broke off and listened intently for a few seconds.
‘What? Good God. Is that a joke? Because if-’
Bronson tried to make sense of the half of the conversation he was hearing, then gave up.
‘No, Roger. I wasn’t even there on the last day. I was at the museum, remember? You saw me at least twice.’ Another pause. ‘No. I’m in Egypt. Just a short holiday. I’ll let you know when I’m back.’
She listened again for a few seconds, then ended the call.
‘What is it?’ Bronson asked.
Angela stared at her phone for a moment, then turned troubled eyes towards him. ‘It’s poor Richard Mayhew,’ she said. ‘He’s dead. Somebody told the local coppers that a car had been left parked at Carfax Hall when we had all left, and they went out there to investigate. They found him in the kitchen.’
‘Christ,’ Bronson said. ‘Did he have a heart attack?’
Angela shook her head. ‘No. He’d been tied to that big old chair in the kitchen and whipped with something like a cat-o’-nine-tails, and then shot. It happened on Friday afternoon, according to the police. They want a statement from me when we get back.’
Bronson was shocked. For perhaps half a minute he just sat there, making connections and exploring the ramifications of what Angela had told him.
‘I think that explains how that bogus priest was able to call you by name,’ he said at last, ‘and how he knew about the things you’d taken from Carfax Hall. He tortured Richard Mayhew and forced him to reveal your name and address, and killed him when he’d got what he wanted. Then he burgled your flat and attacked you in the street outside. And he must have killed Oliver as well, or at least whipped him until the old man’s heart gave out. He’s been one step behind us all the way.’
Angela shook her head. ‘I think he’s one step ahead of us now, because after the attack on Suleiman al-Sahid in Cairo, he’s got the paintings and we haven’t.’
Bronson turned to her. ‘This worries me. This guy is clearly utterly ruthless. He’s killed two people that we know about, and it would have been four if you hadn’t got away from him in London and if we hadn’t pulled Suleiman out of his house. We need to decide if this search is worth the risk.’
‘But we’re not taking part in any search at the moment,’ Angela said. ‘Face facts, Chris — he’s got the paintings and we haven’t, and without them, we might as well pack up and go home right now.’
But Bronson shook his head. ‘Here’s the question. If I could produce the entire text of the parchment for you, would you still want to carry on? Knowing that the priest is still at large, and that we would have to face him again some time?’
‘I wouldn’t want to meet him again,’ Angela said, ‘but it would be different if you were with me. But it’s academic, isn’t it? We don’t have the paintings, so we can’t find the text of the parchment.’
‘So you’d carry on with the search?’
‘Definitely; the prize is too big to ignore.’
Bronson smiled. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another question for you. What does Persian script look like? I mean, is it a plain and simple font — or something more elaborate?’
‘It’s quite elaborate. You could call it flowery, I suppose. It’s got lots of curves and twists. Why?’
‘That’s what I hoped you’d say,’ Bronson replied. ‘If I’m right, Oliver Wendell-Carfax was wasting his time tearing panels off the walls looking for the hiding place where Bartholomew had hidden the papyrus text. I think the papyrus itself probably fell to pieces quite soon after he pulled it out of the sealed pottery vessel — it is quite fragile, isn’t it?’
‘If it’s not stored under the right conditions, yes. And Bartholomew wouldn’t have had the knowledge or the experience to know that. Or the equipment, obviously. If he didn’t keep it in a sealed envelope, and especially if he handled it a lot, it wouldn’t last very long.’
‘Right. So my guess is that he carefully copied out the Persian inscription as soon as he saw that the papyrus was starting to deteriorate. Then, later on in his life, he decided to create a more permanent record, and that was why he had the two pictures painted.’
‘We know that. Presumably there’s a secret compartment in the frame of one or other of them. Bartholomew seemed to like things like that, if that drawer under the stuffed fox is anything to go by.’
Bronson shook his head. ‘I don’t think he did anything so complicated. I think he decided to hide it in plain sight. Look at the picture. You’ll see a young man wearing a highly embroidered Indian-style tunic. But look closely at the collar and the lapels. It might look like a random pattern, but I don’t think it is, because it’s not symmetrical. I think that’s a form of writing, a form that most people simply wouldn’t recognize as being writing.’
For a few moments, Angela stared at the image displayed on the screen of her computer.
‘My God, Chris, I think you might be right,’ she said slowly. ‘Now that I know what I’m looking for, it doesn’t seem to be a random pattern. In fact, I think I can make out several individual letters here.’ She looked across at her ex-husband. ‘You are brilliant — do you know that?’
Bronson smiled. It had been an educated guess, but a good one.
‘And the painting of Bartholomew wearing a Red Indian outfit,’ she said, finding the appropriate picture. ‘I suppose it’s in the band of this headdress that goes around his forehead?’
Bronson looked at the screen and nodded. ‘And perhaps running down the front of the tunic as well. Can you read the script?’
‘I hope so. The photographs Bartholomew had taken were done professionally, as far as I can see, and my guess is that he would have insisted that the lettering be readable on them. Otherwise, what would be the point in having the pictures taken at all? Then he sent the paintings to Cairo for safe keeping. If you’re right, and I th
ink you are, these two photographs would have been his personal record of the Persian text, there for all to see, but only if you knew exactly what you were looking for.’
‘What about your scans? Did you lose any of the details of the photographs when you did them?’
‘Maybe a tiny bit, but nothing significant. These scans are probably just as good as having the original photographs, and we also have an advantage — using the computer, I can enlarge the areas we’re interested in and keep them displayed on the screen, which is a lot easier than trying do the same thing with a magnifying glass standing in front of a canvas hanging on a wall.’
Angela leaned over and gave Bronson a kiss.
‘Let’s get back to the hotel as quickly as possible. I’ll have to transcribe the letters and then find an on-line Persian translation program to sort out what the text says. With any luck, I might be able to do all that today.’
She looked at Bronson, her eyes shining with excitement.
‘We’re getting closer, Chris. I can feel it. By this evening, we might have a very good idea where the Ark of the Covenant is buried.’
40
Nearing the centre of Cairo, Bronson indicated left and pulled the hire car over towards the middle of the road, looking for a gap in the oncoming traffic. Nobody seemed particularly inclined to give way, so he eased over further, forcing his way into the traffic stream until a couple of vehicles finally and reluctantly slowed enough to let him swing across in front of them.
‘I’ll never get used to the way they drive over here,’ Angela muttered as Bronson straightened up and headed down the street towards their hotel.
Fifty yards ahead of Bronson’s car, Killian tossed the binoculars aside, reached down and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine sprang to life immediately. As the Peugeot approached him, Killian engaged first gear and accelerated hard, powering it out of the vacant lot and aiming for the side of Bronson’s vehicle.
