Florence swallowed hard, the memory of that day suddenly unbearably vivid. But the sight of Andrew, begging to find an opportunity to steal her thunder, gave her the strength to continue.
“Anyway, with the only suspect dead, the case is closed. Last, but by no means least, we end up with a dramatic reversal: the fake mask of Tutankhamen that was being held at the police station as evidence has vanished, adding credence to Hunter's assertions. Hunter, with whom, by the way, we have a signed an exclusive contract.”
Florence glanced across at Gayle to catch traces of a smile.
“As a minor aside, our AFP colleagues have already shown that the modus operandi of the assault on the police station differs from previous such incidents by protesters, in a way that suggests a much more sophisticated, and expensive, operation. May I also add that the woman in the pyramid, who has inherited a small, but not insignificant portion of her late husband's fortune, lives in seclusion in New York. No journalist has managed to photograph her, let alone obtain an interview. So those are the facts, but from here it gets a little more complicated.”
“More complicated? Jesus Christ,” Jim muttered.
“First, access to Room X is still an absolute mystery,” Florence continued, undaunted. “The guards testified that the victims entered the monument through the main entrance and then vanished; even if we disregard Aqmool’s belief that the guards were bribed and their testimony is unreliable, Room X is completely airtight. Its four walls, ceiling and floor are composed of stone blocks weighing several tons each, and there is no trace of any opening mechanism. The small hole we discovered connected the chamber to the adjacent corridor and probably saved Jessica Pryce's life, but it’s wide enough for a rat, not two adult bodies. We know that this hole was made recently, as it was not there when the room was last surveyed a month before the discovery. Any hope of further forensic investigation is useless because Al-Shamy and the SCA refuse to let anyone touch their pyramid. And even if they did, the damage caused during the breaking down of the wall may well have erased any evidence.”
“The second puzzle: the mask of Tutankhamen itself. If what Hunter claims is correct – and the theft at the police station suggests it may well be – why did the Egyptian Museum not report the theft when there were clear benefits for doing so? Both in respect of the insurance if it could not be reclaimed, and the extensive help that would certainly have come from Interpol and international intelligence services? Oh, and third puzzle: the disappearance of the newlyweds while on honeymoon in Mexico. Nothing on that, nobody even knows how they got to Cairo.”
“Finally, and for good measure, I also give you the context in which all this is happening: if one of you had planned an exotic holiday on the banks of the Nile, then I strongly advise you to ask for a refund. Cairo is now a war zone, all the tourists have gone, law and order have collapsed, the antiquities traffic is at its height. As you know, we had to film the drama bits on Nefertiti in Morocco with pyramids in CGI, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”
After a few scattered chuckles had died down, Gayle turned to Jim and Jane. “Do you see what I've been juggling with for four months? Where’s the aspirin? Ok, let’s take a quick breather, God knows I need one.”
Everyone knew that “breather” was Gayle’s code for a cigarette break. A relief for Florence: Gayle was much easier to deal with when her nicotine levels were up. Jim and Jane sat talking quietly as Florence went to fetch some water from the tap in the kitchenette in the back of the room. As she did, she caught sight of Andrew stuffing some of the biscuits into his pockets.
“Today,” Gayle said once back in her seat, her mouth working away at a stick of chewing gum, “we can only walk away from this meeting after answering two questions. The first, what do we do with this story of stolen Tutankhamen mask. I’ll be candid, the evidence is sketchy at best.”
“For example?” Jim asked.
“For example,” Gayle continued, “Hunter took hundreds of photos of the mask in the museum, over a period of weeks, all from identical locations. After the attack at the police station, the photos show that the mask moved by a few inches. Hunter's theory is that before the police station attack, the mask in the case was the fake. After being retrieved during the attack, the genuine one was put back. That would imply that it was the museum, or even the police, that were responsible for the assault of the station and the theft of the mask from the evidence locker. Not to mention the, err, murder of the curator.”
A chorus of uncomfortable groans erupted around the table.
“Personally, I think that all this can prove is that the mask was moved,” Gayle continued. “After all, that thing must be cleaned from time to time, right?”
“It’s an interesting coincidence that for months it doesn’t move, but it gets cleaned a few hours after the theft in the police station evidence room.”
“Hold on, that’s his only proof? You’re kidding me?” Andrew laughed, spraying biscuit crumbs on to his notes.
Florence couldn’t help clenching her teeth when she spoke, “No. Hunter spent almost four months infiltrating counterfeiters to get close to the guy who made the fake.”
“The real fake in the museum, or the fake fake in the pyramid?” Jim asked mischievously.
Florence ignored him. “The last we heard was that Hunter had located the master forger. He will meet with him in the next few days.”
Jim’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “I just don’t see how he's going to prove it was a fake if it's such a perfect reproduction.”
“Okay,” Gayle interrupted, clearly wanting to move things along. “The other question is, are we even interested in the murder of the pyramid?”
“Everyone is interested in the murder of the pyramid,” Andrew said a little too cockily. “It's already hot to trot. Even Channel 4 has scheduled a twenty-six minuter next week and most of the things you mentioned, Florence, frankly, they're already in the public domain.”
Florence wondered if it was possible to bludgeon someone to death with a biscuit.
“Yes,” she retorted instead, “but I thought about it, and the few things we have that are exclusive could turn everything on its head.”
“Do you want to talk about Moswen's last words?” Gayle asked.
“What last words?” Jim’s interest was suddenly revived.
“In the fire,” Florence said, savoring the revelation. “Hausmann heard Moswen shout a name, which he repeated several times as the building came down around their ears. Oxan Aslanian.”
“Who, or what is an Oxan Aslanian?” Jim asked, leaning forward.
“Oxan Aslanian is an Armenian from Berlin. He is widely accepted to be the best forger in the world in Egyptian antiquities.”
“And presumably this is the same man that Franklin Hunter is due to meet tomorrow?” Jim asked.
“No,” Florence replied, shaking her head. “That’s the interesting part. Oxan Aslanian died in Munich in 1967.”
There was a hush in the room for a few seconds.
“Good heavens,” Jim sighed. “Where’s that aspirin, Gayle?”
“Wait,” Florence continued. “What changes the deal is the mask itself.”
Florence could feel all the attention in the room focus on her. This was the moment of truth. “If what Hunter says is true and the genuine mask really was in the pyramid, it becomes a central part of the murder mystery. You cannot tell me that a treasure worth hundreds of millions of dollars was put in the same room as the victims just by chance or for decoration?”
Florence looked at each of them in turn and let the idea sink in before continuing.
“It has to mean that this is no longer Mr and Mrs Pryce who got murdered by Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the pyramid – type mystery. The victims and – or – the murderer must be at the nexus of an extremely powerful and sophisticated network of antiquities traffickers, the likes of which we have not seen before. Think about it, such an organization would have to h
ave had unique knowledge of the secret passage of the pyramid, connections at the highest levels of government departments in Egypt and possibly Mexico, the funds to hire professionals to organize mass civil unrest to effect the theft from a secure evidence lockup in a police station, and the murder of a key witness. There is no way that this begins and ends with a cash-strapped assistant curator. Besides, I saw him. He’s no Colonel Mustard.”
Nobody spoke. Andrew had stopped munching on biscuits.
Florence held up one of Franklin’s photographs from the museum. “So, to summarize, if it is true, then this is the key to something. Something big.”
“Okay,” sighed Gayle, carefully putting the palm of her hands flat on the meeting table. “Thank you for Florence for that particularly scholarly summary.” Perhaps Gayle’s nicotine levels were starting to dip, but Florence detected a definite edge to her voice. “You are right about the possible implications if Mr. Hunter’s theory is correct. But if he’s wrong...”
“If he’s wrong,” Jane said cutting across her, “not only are we going to be the laughing stock of the documentary world and no doubt lose all of our big co-production deals in the process, but I don’t think that it would be a stretch to say that the BBC probably wouldn’t be welcomed back to Egypt ever again.” She removed her glasses and fixed Florence with an unwavering gaze. “Florence, the BBC has built up a reputation, not to mention a sizable business, as the producer of some of the greatest archeological documentaries in the world, the most popular and profitable of which are about the pyramids. And you are suggesting that we put all of that at risk based on the theory of a detective who showed you a few Polaroids in a café?”
Nobody spoke for a while. Florence could feel her cheeks burn.
“It’s a nasty little quandary, isn’t it?” Jim said finally, smiling at the irony. “Either we are embarking on what could be the story of the century, or we are booking a one-way ticket to careers in the making of hemorrhoid cream commercials. Isn’t it?”
“Okay, so what is it going to be?” Gayle asked, now clearly agitated. “There is a tremendous amount of moving parts, and the key actors are already in play. If Florence is going to make a double program, a ninety-minute special with one half dedicated to the quest for the mask and the other half documenting the investigation of the murder, we need to establish a budget this week. And that means a decision not tomorrow or next week, but now.”
Silence fell on the room. Only the soft click-click of the air conditioning and the distant wail of a police siren disrupted it. Florence fidgeted with her pencil, tapping it on the pile of notes before her.
“Well, seeing as all our careers are on the line, I propose we take a vote.” Andrew was smiling like a cat that had finally cornered the canary. “Obviously, Jane's vote will count double.”
No-one dissented as Andrew dusted the crumbs from his tired, stained cardigan.
“Right then, I'll start,” Andrew offered. “I'm voting against it. It all hangs by the flimsiest of threads, and we would be placing ourselves at the mercy of this Hunter, who looks to me as some attention-seeking nobody. If he leaves us up the creek without a paddle, then everything goes ass over kettle.”
“I was there,” Florence hissed, glaring at Andrew. “Some things might not yet be clear, but Hunter is right. What we have seen is just the beginning, I would bet my life on it. I vote for.”
Next was Gayle, who breathed a long, tired sigh that smelled of cigarettes and spearmint. “Sorry, Flo, I vote against. I don’t want to be the one who blew up the BBC. I’ve got an ex-husband to support and I’m too young to feel this old.”
“Well, well, well,” Jim exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve been at this game for thirty-five years, and I can’t think of ever having come across a thornier subject. Provided we can avoid the thorns, there could well be something explosive. Of that there is no doubt. You're right, Gayle, it must be age. I am so old that I am practically wetting myself with excitement. I vote for. Come on then, Jane, two for and two against. What say you?”
Everyone glanced at Jane. She was staring out the window at the traffic speeding over the concrete overpass. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally spoke.
“For.”
Jim slapped the table and shouted, “Onwards to victory!”
As much as she tried not to, Florence could not help but smile. The feeling of triumph was so delicious, she was practically levitating. She was going to produce, all alone, ninety minutes of television that would act as a curtain raiser to the entire season, along with all the hype and attention that went along with it. Along with her work on Nefertiti, this was going to fast-track her career. Her father would be so proud. And Max would love it, no question.
She was so absorbed in her visions of glorious conquest that she had to make an effort to listen to Jane saying, “But on one condition, Florence.”
“Yes?” Florence said, still smiling widely.
“You’re not going to be able to do everything.”
In an instant, Florence was no longer floating, but as if from a suicidal drop on a roller coaster, her stomach plunged.
Gayle jumped in. “Of course, Andrew can run the rest of Nefertiti so that Florence can concentrate on the ninety minutes.”
“No,” Jane said, her tone making it clear that the moment for democratic decision-making had passed. “This is a journalistic investigation, not just standard programming. Sorry, Florence, but the stakes are too high, and you don’t have the experience. We need a veteran journalist who can help you bring this home.”
Florence had stopped listening; her head was spinning. In one fell swoop, she had simultaneously lost her position in the Nefertiti documentary and had been relegated to the rank of assistant on her own film. She could see Andrew's grin from the corner of her eye, and she could feel tears of rage and frustration welling up behind her eyes.
Jane got up and the rest of the team followed her lead. All except Florence, who was too numb to move.
Then, from nowhere, an idea exploded in her head. Before she realized what she was doing, her mouth had opened and words were coming out.
“Wait. There's one last thing. That I… I did not tell you.”
Everyone turned around. Jane did not bother to hide her impatience.
“I can get another exclusive,” Florence stammered. “I did not want to talk about it because I wanted to make sure that all the details were covered, but...”
A current of expectation passed through the room. Jane glared fiercely at the young journalist with pink hair, who was now staring back at her, refusing to back down.
“Who?” Jane demanded.
“Max Hausmann, the architect.” Florence’s mouth was suddenly parched, but there was no going back now. “He is on the brink of solving the mystery of the access to Room X. If I'm in charge, he'll talk. But only if I’m in charge.”
The whole room held its breath. Jane’s gaze had taken on a more measured quality, calculating and assessing. The throb of Florence’s pulse drummed in her temples, she felt as if she were being stripped back to her essentials and every ounce of her motives and ability checked and weighed.
With a strange, twisted smile, Jane finally broke the silence. “Okay, Florence Mornay-Devereux. But first, I’ll need to have, on my desk, rock-solid evidence that Max Hausmann has found the access to Room X. Plus a signed world exclusivity contract. Got it?”
“I'll need some time–”
“You have twelve days.”
32
With one hand on the steering wheel of his battered Chevrolet Citation, Franklin negotiated the dusty streets of Qurna, a village outside the west bank of Thebes, south of the Valley of the Kings and nestled in a hollow amongst sand-colored hills.
With the other hand, he tried the number for Moswen's widow. No answer. He stopped a passer-by to ask for directions and, a short while later, pulled up and parked in front of a run-down, but weirdly cheerful dome-roofed house with re
d-painted bricks and murals depicting scenes of the pilgrimage to Mecca.
It had taken him four months to find this address. Four months of winning over antique dealers who he knew added 'special' pieces to their catalogues. His journey had taken him from the shadows of the souks and the small shops of amateurs who made “ancient” papyrus from dried banana leaves, to filthy backyard sheds where “authentic” scarab amulets were sculpted in old bones chewed by turkeys – their gastric juices producing just the right patina. Finally, he had managed to arrange invitations to workshops in the Khan el-Khalili district of Cairo and Mit-Rahineh (formerly known as Memphis), that specialized in creating high-end replicas of the monumental royal pharaonic statues. Whether by using patinas made from secret blends of hard-to-obtain chemicals, faking cracks, and simulating seemingly insignificant details, these pieces were made to age millennia over the course of a few days and would go on to deceive even the greatest experts.
Franklin had met a craftsman in his fifties who had gained sudden notoriety among his peers: he was “the artist” behind Senusret III, a sculpture made famous thanks to a five-year trial between a billionaire who discovered that the piece for which he had paid a million euros was fake, an auction house that refused to provide a refund, and a smattering of internationally renowned experts who could not agree amongst themselves. Franklin knew that the feuding parties had finally settled, but only after the intervention of Yohannes DeBok, the only expert who was able to provide actual proof, rather than just an opinion, of the fakery.
The Pyramid Prophecy Page 15
