"Take your coat off, Dr. Wynne," he said after an awkward silence, hoping the man was wearing something underneath. Goodness knows what Denby Rawlins must be like if Panya found him even more obnoxious than Dr. Wynne.
"Thank you." Under the creased coat the man wore a tight-fitting suit in need of an urgent appointment at the cleaners. "I sincerely believe Aten wishes that we should speak together. I hope we can keep what I have to say confidential." Gresley Wynne dribbled slightly as he smiled. "You see, Mr. Bolt, Aten is speaking."
Sam looked up in feigned surprise. "You didn't mention Aten. Is he coming too?"
Panya caught his eye and shook her head furiously, but Sam only laughed. Surely she realized he was winding the old man up.
"Sam," she said earnestly, "Aten is the sun god. New Kingdom. Dr. Wynne is talking ancient Egypt, 1350 years BC."
The scruffy man smiled, showing a mouthful of long yellow teeth. "Excellent, Mrs. Pulaski. It is good that you take an interest in our work. You could also have added that the pharaoh, King Akenaten, led his people to worship Aten as the only god."
"Who was Akenaten?" asked Sam, not really wanting to know.
Dr. Wynne gasped. "Mr. Bolt, I am shocked at your ignorance. Surely you know that Akenaten was the son of Amenhotep III. Ruler of Thebes, king of Upper and Lower Egypt. Akenaten, the father-in-law of Tutankhamun, or perhaps even his father. Certainly Tutankhamun was originally called Tutankhaten. He betrayed Aten when Akenaten died, by changing the religion back to that of the old gods of Egypt. He even changed the ending of his name. And someone killed him for it. They were turbulent times, Mr. Bolt."
Sam sat down on the sofa next to Dr. Wynne, a little bit closer than he'd intended. "Let's skip the history lesson. You're here because you've got a problem."
"Security worries, Mr. Bolt."
"Shouldn't you be seeing the police?"
Dr. Wynne shook his head. "The police have written us off as cranks."
In the long silence Sam could hear two women laughing in the street. Their hearing must be excellent.
"Aten speaks." The unsteady voice of Dr. Wynne brought Sam's attention back to the room. "The words are on Olsen's cylinder, Mr. Bolt." The man's eyes gleamed. "The Institute of Egyptologists is being deeply blessed. It is nearly ten years since I purchased the building with the Second Partner, Denby Rawlins."
Sam decided to take another dig at the old man. "And Olsen, is he from the New Kingdom -- or is he from the present?"
Gresley Wynne sighed softly, probably an attempt to be polite while making his impatience clear. "Olsen is the Third Partner, Mr. Bolt, and he is the reason I am here."
Sam looked at Panya, but she seemed more interested in his room than in him. He wished he'd tidied up a bit more enthusiastically. The place was a mess, starting to look like a bachelor pad.
The visitor had only paused for breath, and wasn't waiting for Sam to say anything. "I believe you are a man with whom I can share a confidence." He put a hand on Sam's knee and gave him a lecherous leer.
Sam moved to the far end of the sofa. Dr. Wynne moved with him.
"Three Partners of Aten, Mr. Bolt. I am the First Partner. Four secretarial staff members come in daily to handle the mail. Sally was, of course, one of them. And we have a cook and a cleaner, who also come in on a daily basis. Mrs. Pulaski here is our resident housekeeper."
Bill Tolley had obviously got it wrong. Sally wasn't still working there. No one would go through an elaborate pretense like this. In which case there was no point in continuing with the meeting. He looked at Panya and decided that it would be premature to back out now. For some reason he enjoyed seeing her in his house. "Tell me about Olsen, Dr. Wynne."
The elderly visitor ran his hands around the waistband of his trousers. "Olsen and the clay cylinder came from America a year ago, like a gift from Aten. His cylinder was the key we needed to unlock the full secrets of the Pyramid Texts. We signed Olsen up for membership, and shortly after that we instated him as our Third Partner. It is thanks to him and Denby Rawlins that we have achieved such spectacular success." He paused, producing a hideously stained handkerchief to wipe his forehead.
"And you seriously believe there's something in these prophecies?" Sam asked, before he could stop himself. If he wasn't careful he'd be getting another history lesson. "Aren't they like the prophecies of Nostradamus? His predictions are so vague you can make them apply to almost anything you want to. Many of them are fakes anyway, written in Victorian times and more recently. Anyone can write a prophecy after the event."
Panya went to the window, probably to hide her embarrassment, making Sam wonder if he'd gone too far.
Dr. Wynne finished adjusting the top of his trousers. "I, for one, Mr. Bolt, do not find the writings of Nostradamus credible. A thousand prophecies for the whole of mankind? Absolute nonsense. Did the world end in nineteen ninety-nine? Of course it didn't. You are correct, people interpret the quatrains of Nostradamus to mean anything they want them to."
Sam waited, deciding to say nothing. This sounded like the pot having a go at the kettle.
"Mr. Bolt, with the Pyramid Texts it is different. The prophecies are precise, and so far, highly accurate. We are using massive computing power to decode the Pyramid Texts to a far higher level than the New Kingdom priests could manage."
"And the history of the world is on a single clay cylinder?"
"The cylinder turned up in Berlin during the war. Hitler thought the words on it were for his planned invasion of England in nineteen forty. Operation Sea Lion. Someone or something made him draw back. I believe Aten told him to land in North Africa."
"Probably bad advice, as it turned out. Fortunately. You surely can't imagine there's a connection between Hitler and the ancient Egyptians." Sam tried not to let his voice show too much contempt, but not too carefully.
"Mr. Bolt, King Unas was buried with his Pyramid Texts around 2323 BC. A thousand years later the New Kingdom priests decided to learn from the ancient tombs that were all around them. They discovered the Texts and realized they were a look into the future. The priests..."
"I'm not too interested in the past," said Sam impatiently.
"You are missing so much, Mr. Bolt. You are missing the voice of Aten, the disc of the sun."
Sam breathed out heavily. "Isn't it all just a little ... bizarre?"
"Bizarre?" The voice sounded sharp. "I am sixty-two, a student of ancient Egypt, and no one has been able to accuse me of being bizarre -- not with any justification."
Sam ran his fingers through his long hair. Maybe he should get it cut soon. "Perhaps we can talk about your security problem."
"Ah yes, if only I could know for sure if Olsen's cylinder is genuine. I blame Frau List for raising the doubts in my mind."
"Frau List?" asked Sam. "She doesn't sound New Kingdom."
"Two weeks ago the Institute had a double page coverage in the weekend edition of the Morning Herald. Very positive. Marvelous publicity. One picture showed our computer suite. Olsen, as always, had the cylinder of Aten on his desk."
"And Frau List saw it?"
"She sent me a letter from Berlin."
Sam waited. This coverage must be Bill Tolley's editor's "groveling piece", as Tolley had put.
Gresley Wynne shook his head. "Has Aten really spoken, Mr. Bolt? Every time I stand in the Hall of Aten, I hear words of doubt."
Sam said nothing. The man should have started hearing words of doubt years ago.
Gresley Wynne stared vacantly at the ceiling before continuing. "Fortunately Frau List's letter was in English, so I was able to read it and keep it to myself."
"So what exactly is the problem, Dr. Wynne?" Sam glanced furtively at his wristwatch. This visit was getting nowhere.
"The problem," said Dr. Wynne quietly, "is Frau List. She claims that her father painted the words on the cylinder -- in nineteen forty."
"Which post-dates Aten by three-and-a-half thousand years," said Sam. "Perhaps she's crazy
. Things like this appeal to crazy people." He quite enjoyed taking a subtle dig at the old man.
"Frau List claims she witnessed the cylinder being painted. She knows about the original cylinder from which the copy was made. She says it's buried in a Berlin basement."
Sam tried his best to look interested. Something inside told him he wanted to be with Panya for a little longer. "Maybe there's no connection. How can you know Olsen's cylinder was in Germany during the war?"
Gresley Wynne smiled his yellowing teeth. "I have an original Nazi Party photograph showing Hitler holding the cylinder at a Rally in Berlin. It is dated September the fourth, nineteen forty. German photographs of that era are pin sharp. Believe me, every detail on the cylinder is an exact match with Olsen's."
"So what's the problem?" Sam was uncertain whether to declare this man totally mad or just insane.
"Do you know, Mr. Bolt, I feel guilty for even questioning Olsen's integrity. But suppose the prophecy is based on error. Suppose Frau List is right, and her grandfather did paint the markings on our cylinder. The Institute would be discredited, and our generous funding from around the world would dry up overnight."
"Yes," agreed Sam. "Sounds to me you've definitely got a problem."
"The prophecies, Mr. Bolt. How can they be false when they are coming to pass?"
"Dr. Wynne, please get to the point. Quite honestly, I haven't the slightest interest in all this Aten stuff, so I can't see I can be any help." Sam guessed he was embarrassing Panya, but he'd put up with this nonsense long enough.
"You do not need to become involved with the history of Egypt to be able to help me, Mr. Bolt. You say you speak German?"
"Passably."
"And you have a passport?"
"The police have given it back to me. Tell me what you want."
Gresley Wynne caught him by the shoulder. "I want you to go to Berlin tomorrow and talk to Frau List."
"Absolutely not," Sam said.
Chapter 10
The Lodge, Institute of Egyptologists, England
PANYA HESITATED before picking up the phone. She had just got back from Sam Bolt's house, and for some reason had rather enjoyed the experience. She looked at the clock on her mantelpiece. Three-thirty in the afternoon in England meant it must be five-thirty in Cairo. Her mind made up, she dialed the code for Egypt using her 0800 international phone card. It wouldn't do for a Cairo phone number to appear on the next Institute bill. Whoever was going through her things might be on the lookout for records of suspicious long-distance calls. "I want to speak to Cardinal Fitz, please."
She waited while the receptionist found the hotel room number.
"Michael?" she said when the phone was answered. Thank the good Lord the man was in his hotel room. "This is Panya."
"Panya," the Irish voice reverberated down the line. "And what is it that gets you calling a man while he's got his feet up, preparing for a Unity Through Faith meeting this week?"
"I have a problem. Well, it's a friend who has the problem."
She ran through the details of her encounter with Sam, including what she'd heard about his runaway partner and the two children now in care.
"And to be sure," responded the Cardinal after a pause when Panya had finished, "I'm thinking it's you that has the problem, not the young man."
"No, Michael, it's Sam."
"No, Panya, perhaps it's a terrible thing you're doing. Do you not think he may be a murderer after all?"
"You haven't met him," Panya retorted. "His partner is the guilty one. She ran off with the money."
"Ah, so he says. And maybe it's you that will be ending up dead next."
"Michael Fitz," Panya tried to sound at her most forceful with her favorite cardinal, "trust me. Sam's a good, decent man."
"I hope you're not taking a fancy to the fellow."
"I want to help him get his children back."
"Then that's a decent Christian act you're after doing. Didn't Jesus say blessed are the peacemakers, in his Sermon on the Mount? Can I be after offering any help now -- for the sake of the little children?"
"You have contacts in the Vatican bank."
"The Vatican bank's doors are closed to me"
"You're a cardinal. Ask them to find where the money is. I've been talking to one of the secretaries here at the Institute. She knew Sam's partner well. She says Sally cashed the check, so she must have opened another account somewhere."
"Maybe she changed her name for the new account."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Panya. "But surely she'd have to register a change of name."
"Banks aren't after giving away confidences to the likes of me. I can't possibly ask them to----"
"Sam's children are in a council home, and he loves them very much. If they go to foster parents he may never get them back. We can't deprive them of his care."
"We?"
"I need your help, Michael. Do you have contacts in any children's homes in this area?"
"You're asking a lot, Panya."
"There's another cylinder in Berlin. It could prove that the work at the Institute is phony. If I can persuade Sam to bring it back, can we work out a deal? He won't want money. All he'll want is his children."
"Berlin? Panya, my child, tell me exactly what it is you're after letting me in for."
*
England
"SAM? THIS IS Panya. Panya Pulaski. Remember. I came to see you today with Dr. Wynne?"
He recognized the voice at once. He'd not expected a phone call. For some reason it gave him a small thrill. "How did you get my number?"
"I looked it up."
"I'm ex-directory."
"I used the Institute records. Sally's name is still..."
"Okay, yes, I'm sorry. It's just that..."
"You always sound in a bad mood. I may be able to cheer you up a bit. I've got some news about your children."
"Karen and Tom? How do you know about them?"
"You talked about them to Dr. Wynne this afternoon."
"That old man's got my children at the Institute?"
"Of course he hasn't, but I've been talking to someone who's a good friend. He may be able to get them back for you."
Sam said nothing. Panya seemed to extremely interested in his affairs. Maybe he should be flattered.
"You still there, Sam?"
"This all sounds too good to be true."
She laughed. "There's a catch."
"I thought there would be."
"This friend works for the Vatican. He's high up. He wants you to go to Berlin for Dr. Wynne."
"Get this straight, Panya. I'm not going to Berlin for anyone."
"If you go to Berlin he'll help you get your children back."
"You're going to have to tell me more."
"It's simple, Sam. Go to Berlin tomorrow and see Frau List. Persuade her to lend you the clay cylinder, then bring it round here and show it to me the moment you get back."
*
Beni Mazar, Egypt
ON NIGHTS like this, Caleb decided he'd cheerfully lend his wife to a stranger in order to stay indoors by a fire -- if he had a wife. For the past few nights the desert sky to the east had been a soft glow of orange as the lights from the small town of Beni Mazar illuminated the low winter cloud. Tonight the sky was black to the horizon, with a mass of sparkling stars above. He shivered and drew the rug closer to his shoulders. It was already several degrees below freezing.
Caleb listened. He could hear a few rodents scratching their way through the dry grass, but the industrial area seemed quiet. Keeping watch at night was pointless. No one was going to come here, because nothing sensible was kept in this place. Just a few items stored by the Alexandria Packing Company. And if anyone did come, what use would an old man of fifty-one be against a gang of robbers? He spat on the dusty track that ran around the rear of the complex. Five more minutes and he'd go back to his hut and the fire.
The temperature was still falling. Caleb cursed hi
s lack of forethought. The shoes on his feet were ancient, like his body, and the thin soles let the cold strike through unchecked. On his right he could see the unit that had recently been entered by the man with the large vehicle. This complex was falling apart. Built too far from Cairo for commercial units, only some of the buildings had ever been occupied. Light engineering. And that was a joke. Very little engineering was done, because there were no skilled craftsmen looking for work out in this God-forsaken patch. To begin with, farm workers, greedy for more money, had applied themselves to working the dangerous machinery -- until their ability to work was ruined by injuries.
Caleb shone his flashlight through the window in the door of the Alexandria Packing Company, the circle of light striking the wooden crate resting against the far wall. As he turned away, his flashlight lit up the tire tracks left in the sand by the bright blue Mitsubishi.
"May Allah be with them if they think they can profit from using this place."
He flicked the flashlight beam across the yard and returned to his hut to throw pieces of an old packing case onto the fire. Soon the wood was blazing, showers of red sparks drifting skywards until they blended with the sapphire blue of the stars. He shook his head with an exaggerated weariness as he thought of the visit by the man in the Mitsubishi. The fire began to warm his body and he felt active again.
"Only a fool leaves his goods here with Caleb and the rats," he said to himself as he felt for the warehouse key and shuffled his way towards the door.
Chapter 11
Institute of Egyptologists, England
GRESLEY WYNNE turned his head away. Only slightly, so as not to make the movement noticeable. Denby Rawlins had suffered from acutely bad breath ever since they'd known each other. Late at night like this, it always seemed to get worse. Probably the herbal diet was to blame. Lately he'd noticed that Andy Olsen seemed to be sharing a common interest in the Second Partner's remedies.
Denby Rawlins' eyes had become red, permanently red. The condition could be caused by too much time at the computer. The Second Partner had been working on the program for nearly twelve hours today. The obstinate man refused to get his eyes tested, preferring to peer at the screen from much too close, while day in and day out Olsen tapped out masterly key-strokes on the keyboard, much as a musician would turn out awe-inspiring music on the piano.
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