The smile was genuine as he extended a veined hand for David to clasp.
“Ahlan wa-sahlan,” he said, offering the host’s traditional expression of welcome. Despite his weakened condition, Sharif’s voice remained surprisingly strong, an echo of his former self. “Come closer, my friend. Sit beside me so I may see you more clearly.” As David did so, he added, “You do me much honor. I feared you might not accept my invitation after the insult inflicted upon you by my son.”
“Your man was both determined and persuasive, Sharif. How could I refuse such a convincing messenger?”
“Tactfully said,” chuckled the old man. “Haleem’s loyalty to me has been a true blessing for a great many years. My method was perhaps crude, I admit, but under the circumstances, I saw no alternative. Am I then forgiven for my boldness?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
Content, Sharif leaned back against his many cushions.
“Then let us speak of more important matters. Firstly, I must say my knowledge of what transpired last night remains superficial. My discreet informants were not present, thus they learned only the most cursory of details. If it’s not too much trouble, I am curious as to exactly what happened.”
David obliged him, leaving nothing out.
The story told, Sharif shook his head in apparent disgust. “Most regrettable,” he sighed. “I am truly shamed beyond measure. I trust the young woman was unharmed? From what you say, she responded bravely when you were threatened . . .”
“Indeed. She came through the experience remarkably well.”
“I am thankful for this. If it eases your mind, my friend, I can assure you Abdel contemplates no act of revenge. I have seen to this personally. His pride is bruised, needless to say, but I have convinced him to leave well enough alone.” He took a long pause; then said, “Yet it puzzles me that you have no knowledge of just who your timely benefactor at the window may have been.”
“Until a better explanation comes along, I can only assume we simply got caught between Abdel and someone harboring ill will towards him.”
“Perhaps so,” mused Sharif. “Such people are probably legion. As my eldest living son, he now runs many of our family enterprises, yet I have no illusions as to his character. His single talent—if such it can be called—is in the creation of enemies. I consider this a personal failure, for I must have been remiss in his upbringing. His undisciplined ways will inevitably lead to ruin, of this I am certain.” He smiled faintly. “Thus I wish to make amends to you for his base behavior. I view it as point of honor. Tell me, in what manner may I serve you?”
David believed his sincerity. Sharif’s long reputation was of an honorable man who never retreated from his given word.
“What I need is any information you can provide on an incident that took place here in Cairo roughly sixty some years ago.”
Sharif arched a sparse eyebrow.
“As little as this?” he asked. “Now you truly arouse an old man’s curiosity! But please continue.”
“It concerns the woman’s grandfather, an obscure archaeologist who died here back in the summer of 1956. Until recently, it was assumed his death was accidental. But evidence has recently surfaced which raises some doubt.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And just how may I be of help?”
“It’s important for us to learn all we can of her grandfather’s last contacts and associates. To be blunt, there’s a real chance he might’ve gotten himself involved in the black-market.”
“So, thus you come to me. Quite understandable. And what leads you to suspect this may be so?”
“It could mean nothing, but in the last few months before his death, he worked the Burkhart excavation at Tell El Amarna—and it was during this time all those rumors of inside looting spread across Cairo. I’ve no hard evidence to support a connection, but neither can the timing be completely ignored.”
Unless David misread Sharif’s face, it appeared his expression altered subtly at the mention of Tell El Amarna. For the briefest instant, the old man seemed to steal himself, his eyes focusing inward as if in hurried concentration. But the impression was fleeting, perhaps an inaccurate perception.
“This is all very interesting, and I have sworn to help you if I can. A promise is sacred to me. The year 1956, you say? And who was this man?”
“His name was Lionel DeCaylus,” David answered, watching his host closely. “It’s possible he may also have called himself ‘Parker’ on more than one occasion. A man of slight build, fair-complexioned, with reddish blond hair.”
Sharif’s expression never changed, no hint of recognition touching his eyes. Instead, he only lifted his shoulders. “In all honesty, neither name is known to me. If it were otherwise, I would tell you.”
David gambled on a hunch.
“Yet inside looting did take place there, didn’t it? It was more than mere rumor?”
The old man didn’t immediately reply, which was a kind of affirmation in itself. He pursed his lips tightly; then said with obvious reluctance, “I will not deny such things happened, but you begin to probe a most sensitive area. Please understand, my friend, even after so long a time, there are still confidences that must be kept. If your question is whether or not this man was involved in some way, then I can only give you my solemn word I personally never knew of it. Thus I can neither confirm or nor deny his innocence in the affair.”
David tried a different tact.
“I have a short list of names,” he said, pulling out his pocket notepad, “people who I know worked with DeCaylus at Tell El Amarna. Anything you can give me on them will be of great help. It’s important to me, Sharif.”
“And if what you ask is more than I am at liberty to give?”
“You swore to help me. Your words, not mine.”
There followed a lengthy silence as the ailing man deliberated on this. Clearly the weight of his admitted obligation was now in direct conflict with his conscience. Finally, he heaved a sigh, extracting a pair of wire-frame glasses from a deep fold in his galabia. “Maybe there is some ground for compromise,” he said, fitting them to the narrow bridge of his nose. “Show me, and we shall see what can be done.”
David gave him the list.
Conscious of being closely watched, Sharif revealed little as he scanned the names. He then returned the pad. “Your needs present me with a somewhat difficult dilemma. But it is not unmanageable.” He removed his glasses. “I will tell what I can, but no more. How you choose to interpret it, I leave solely to you.”
David nodded his understanding.
“In late spring of 1956, a man came to me wishing to do business. He, too, was American, presenting several small artifacts to sell. They were minor items, to be sure, yet I recognized them as pieces of respectable quality and worth. It took no great expertise to deduce their origin, for they were certainly from Burkhart’s dig. Why he chose to come to me, I can only surmise. Perhaps he heard I was someone who paid fair value for genuine artifacts and could be trusted.”
“Did he identify himself?”
“No, not at first. But I later learned he was Bruno Haussman. At the time, he was perhaps in his early sixties. We did business four or five times over a three-month period, and each time the artifacts he brought to me increased in both quality and value. I had no doubts he was in possession of an extremely rich cache. Cautious man that he was, I suspect he intended feeding them to me gradually over a period of time, thus ensuring himself the best possible price.”
“Intended, you say? What happened?”
“Unfortunately for Mr. Haussman, he never lived to complete his plan. He died of injuries received in a local street accident—and coincidentally, this occurred only hours before another of our arranged meetings. I was suspicious of foul play, of course, but there were many witnesses to say otherwise.” He paused. “Does this sound similar to what befell your Mr. DeCaylus?”
&
nbsp; David offered no answer. Instead, he asked, “Did Haussman ever imply he had any accomplices.”
“No, but one can only surmise.”
David felt something important was going unsaid. How did Sharif express it a few moments ago? Confidences that must be kept. But to whom? Certainly not to someone long dead. Therefore there must be another!
A bigger picture begam to take shape.
“I get the feeling you don’t have to surmise anything, Sharif. I think someone else on this list picked up right where Haussman left off—someone who is still alive and with us today.”
After a lengthy pause, Sharif gave a perceptible nod of confirmation.
“It is so,” he admitted, “but I can say nothing beyond this. To divulge more would be to break a most solemn trust. This I cannot do. I owe this to one I hold in the greatest respect. Forgive me, my friend. If it were simply up to me . . .”
David thought quickly, seeking a means to somehow breach the wall of firm resolve on the old man’s face. The stakes were too high to let the opportunity slip away.
“You spoke of finding a way to compromise,” he said, “so let me offer you one now. Can you be absolutely certain this person won’t speak with me of his own accord? I seek only the truth about Lionel DeCaylus. If nothing else, at least approach him. I swear I will never reveal more than I am allowed. If he still refuses, then I will accept you’ve done all within your power. Your conscious would be clear, all obligations of honor met.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed as he weighed this reasonable proposal.
But before he could respond, the far door swung open.
It was Haleem. In the courtyard beyond, the large mastiff was no longer dozing. Instead, it was barking furiously. “Forgive the interruption, sir,” he said, “but I believe we may have an intruder somewhere in the building.”
“What—?” Sharif straightened, but looked doubtful. “How can this be?”
“The old woman found the storeroom door to the back street ajar. She claims it was closed and locked. With your permission, I want to bring in my man, Lahib, and start a thorough search.”
“If you feel you must, then do so. And release that damn dog! If nothing else it will silence him.”
Once Haleem was gone, Sharif gave his attention back to David.
“I am sure there is nothing to this,” he said by way of apology. “Though it is well known I now choose to keep few people here, I can assure you no thief in all of Bulaq would ever dare to—”
A loud thud from the balcony cut him off, and both men looked up.
Behind the mashrabiyyah screens was the distinct outline of someone scrambling to his feet. Whoever the eavesdropper was, he had apparently stumbled while attempting to duck back into the upper apartments.
David bolted to his feet. “How do I get up—”
“Through there!” said the old man, pointing to a side curtain. “And hurry! You can cut him off before he reaches the stairwell!”
David swept the heavy curtain aside and ran the empty length of a darkened hall. It was narrow, the ceiling low, the sound of pounding footsteps overhead guiding his way. One floor up, the intruder was making his own dash towards the rear of the building along a parallel hallway. If the man intended reaching the same door that got him in, then at some point he must drop to ground level. But where the hell was the stairwell that Sharif—
There!
The man beat David to it by a good five strides. Having bounded down the steps, he emerged off balance—yet avoided being caught by immediately darting around a corner
David charged after him, sprinting through a series of windowless rooms, all connected by a straight line of arched openings. The visibility was minimal, his fleeing target little more than a snake-like shadow. Yet he had made gains; the intruder was clearly flagging, running out of steam.
The man’s obvious goal was the back storeroom by which he initially gained entrance; but his lead was shrinking, not enough left for him to make it. Accepting this reality, he now swung around in the dim light, panting for breath as he projected his arm back towards his pursuer.
A gun!
David had already launched himself forward when he saw the muzzle’s bright flash. The bullet whizzed past his ear as he slammed the man backward onto a low stack of wood crates. A sharp yelp of pain accompanied the sound of the gun now skittering across the stone floor. David clung tightly as they rolled, the thrashing man surprisingly strong for his slight frame. Yet he was no serious match without his weapon. In a frenzied attempt to break free, he began to claw and gouge with his fingers—but a hard fist to the center of his face snapped his head back, taking all the fight out of him.
As David straddled the fellow, he heard loud shouts coming from the adjoining courtyard. Louder still was the baying sound of the mastiff. Christ Almighty! he thought. The animal was running free inside the building, heading straight in his direction. The last thing he needed was to have the brute tearing—
The creak of a floorboard alerted him to someone behind him. He pivoted around on his knee, catching only the briefest glimpse of a massive forearm and fist descending across his neck. It felt like being impacted by a car.
Then he felt nothing at all.
When he awoke, it was to a confusing mix of pain and bright light. A grim-faced Haleem was kneeling over him outside the storeroom, his lean frame silhouetted by the now open doorway to the inner courtyard. In his hand was a damp fold of cloth, one he had apparently been applying to David’s brow. “He took a severe blow,” he said to someone close, “but I expect he’ll be all right. It doesn’t appear any bones were broken.”
“Help him sit up,” said a concerned voice, “and we shall see.” It belonged to Sharif. “How are you, my friend? You’re fortunate even to be alive.”
“That’s roughly how I feel. How—how long was I—”
“A few minutes, no more.”
The effort of raising his head left him dizzy, and he sat for several moments, trying to sort out what exactly had occurred. Probing with his hand, he found the back of his neck and upper shoulder extremely tender—but more painful to the touch was a puffy swelling up under his hairline. He winced as Haleem applied the wet cloth to it. “Whoever clubbed me from behind,” he said groggily, “had one hell of an arm on him.”
“Then you saw him?”
“Too dark. I didn’t realize he was even there until the last moment. So what happened? They both get away?”
It was Sharif who answered, his voice now somber.
“Not hardly. I’m afraid we have ourselves a messy problem to deal with.”
Puzzled, David lifted his eyes and focused on the old man. He was seated on a low crate just outside the immediate spread of light. Lying on the floor by his feet was the intruder, much as he was after the fight. Ominously, a piece of dirty burlap was now draped over his face and chest. It told him the man wasn’t merely unconscious. It said he was dead.
“How?” said a stunned David. “He was alive after I took him down. There’s no way I hit him hard enough to—”
“You didn’t. Come, see for yourself.”
Haleem assisted him over, then stooped and flipped the rag aside.
The stark face was frozen, the eyes wide and staring. A reddish smear attested to his broken nose, the expected result of David’s fist. What had proven lethal, however, was clearly visible lower down. It was a sickeningly deep slash across the entire front of his throat. Like a gaping second mouth, the obscene cavity was pooled with dark, clotted blood. And now David noticed something else. Lying a few feet further back was the lifeless body of the big mastiff.
Sharif saw the direction of his eyes. “The dog was similarly killed,” he said. “No mean feet when you consider the animal’s breed and temperament. Whoever did this is a most serious fellow, a man deserving of respect.” He paused, gesturing with the tip of his cane. “Take a closer look at this one’s face. Can he be the one who fired through that window last ni
ght?”
David dropped to one knee, using the rough cloth to wipe blood from the man’s nose and chin. Was it the same face? The more he studied it, the surer he became. Too, he again felt that eerie sense of vague familiarity.
Aloud, he said, “I’m almost certain of it, Sharif. It’s strange, but I think I know him from somewhere.”
“You do, my friend. Think back to three years ago—to your midnight meeting near the gate of Bal al-Futuh.”
It came to him.
Yes! The Fatimid bowl. This was the man Sharif set him up with on that moonless night. He recalled the particular circumstances. The man took every precaution to preserve his anonymity, but then made the nervous mistake of lighting a cigarette just as his customer drew near. Although he cupped his hands to the small flame, it was enough to give David a faint glimpse of his face—and as brief as it was, the image had obviously stuck in his mind.
Though he knew the answer, David asked, “It’s the same man, right?”
“The same.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“His name is Naguib Hassan, a small-time thief and opportunist of no real account. I think we can now assume, my friend, it was you he was spying on last night, and not my son. Nothing else explains his presence here. The question is, of course, just why would this be?”
Why, indeed? David wondered. Was it even remotely possible this man knew of the gold disk? Rationally, he couldn’t. The run-in with Abdel took place on the very first full night after their arrival in Egypt. No, there must be another explanation.
It was Haleem who provided one.
The Amun Chamber Page 13
