“I am only asking, Professor Moctezuma, because, this friend of mine, Mrs. Pryce, mentioned this headdress to me and–”
“I am afraid that is impossible,” the curator interrupted, matter-of-factly. “Your friend could not have seen it here four months ago. This item is a very recent acquisition and was put on display only two weeks ago.”
“And before that?” asked Sixtine, holding her breath.
“I am sorry to admit that it was languishing in some antique dealer's shop.”
“Can you give me the name of this dealer?”
The curator hesitated, a shadow suddenly falling across his bookish features.
Using her kindest voice, Sixtine whispered, “Mr. di Blumagia assured me that if anyone could help me, Professor Moctezuma, that it would be you.”
“Mr. di Blumagia knows he can always count on me of course,” the curator said, forcing a smile. “It was obtained from the collection of Mr. Yohannes DeBok.”
But Sixtine did not have time to react. The whole museum had been plunged into obscurity.
The assault on Sixtine was immediate, and as violent as the darkness was absolute. Hapi the monkey shrieked with laughter, and the green river emerged from the abyss. She was suddenly in an immense cave; moist, black stalactites suspended threateningly above her, gnarled spears ready to plunge into her unfeeling flesh at any moment. At the center of the cave stood Nefertiti, eyeless and imperious. In a corner, waiting for orders, his black eyes glistening as much as the gold of his necklace, Anubis stood guard over the boat.
And hovering over them all, the giant eye of Osiris filled all the shadows with his green gaze. He spoke first.
“Have you found the path, my sister?”
Fear coursing through her veins, Sixtine froze, desperately wishing for a corner to retreat into, but finding none.
“Time is ticking. Let the queen warrior guide you,” ordered Osiris. “She knows the path.”
Nefertiti walked towards her, a trail of emerald smoke blurring her silhouette. She got so close that when she spoke, Sixtine felt her breath on her neck. It smelled of dust and stagnant water.
“Listen to your scarab heart, sister,” Nefertiti whispered.
When the lights of the museum reappeared, Sixtine was still shaking, curled up into a ball on the polished floor, spittle drooling from her lips. The curator was trying to talk to her, but his words were lost to the ringing in her ears. Finally, fragments of his panicked monologue reached her: a power outage had swept throughout the neighborhood, probably due to a storm. She managed to swallow and caught her breath; a guard rushed to help her to sit. As feeling slowly returned to her limbs, she lifted her gaze.
The scream that had built up in her chest exploded into the vast silence of the museum.
There was a bloody ghost standing among the Aztec antiquities. Seven feet high, a white specter amongst all those ancient, carved stones, splashes of blood staining his white coat.
The curator followed her gaze and stared uncomprehendingly at what he saw. He gestured and shouted orders to the guards, who rushed towards the ghost. It was soon discovered that the phantom was, in fact, a sheet that had been thrown over a large statue of Coatlicue, the double-headed serpent goddess who devoured her own children.
Sixtine stood up and stepped forward, still trembling with the onslaught of her visions, towards the blood-stained sheet lying on the floor. While the guards checked that no damage had been done to the precious statue, she unfolded the fabric.
It was not blood, but words splashed in red paint:
RUN, SIXTINE, OR YOU WILL DIE.
IV
42
“Mr. Hunter, there is someone for you downstairs.”
Franklin opened the door just wide enough to see his landlord standing on the landing.
“Who is it? Police?”
“He didn’t say,” the landlord replied tersely, “but he doesn’t look like any police that I know.”
Franklin grabbed the holster from its place in one of the kitchen drawers, and after tucking it behind his belt against the small of his back, followed the landlord downstairs. Despite the early hour, the cafe was already busy. In amongst the bustle of waiters and chatter of the patrons, a slightly built, elderly man with distinctly Asian features sat very still.
Franklin’s first thought was about Oxan Aslanian. If it was him, what did he want? He felt only slightly reassured by the bulk of his gun as he walked towards the man’s table, scanning the room for additional accomplices.
“Good day Mr Hunter, I am Han. I am in the employ of a lady who would very much like to talk to you, in confidence. I am her butler.”
“Sure. I always have time for ladies with butlers. What does she want to discuss?” Franklin replied as he sat opposite him.
“She asked me to give this to you to secure a little bit of your time, and to ensure your utmost discretion.”
The old man handed Franklin a black leather pouch. The detective glanced at its contents. Five thousand dollars was a conservative estimation. Too much for a simple chat, yet not worth risking his life for.
“I’ll need more info before I commit to anything,” Franklin said carefully, the five thousand dollars already burning a hole in his mind.
“Of course. Would that be enough if I told you the lady used to be known as Jessica Pryce?” The butler stared at him with the vaguely amused look of the man who knows that’s all he needs to reveal.
Less than an hour later, a large wad of cash in his jacket’s inside pocket and his head buzzing with nervous excitement, Franklin G. Hunter was fastening his seatbelt on a private jet headed for Mexico City.
“Was your trip comfortable, Mr. Hunter?”
A solitary, black-clad figure looked out towards Mexico City that lay beyond the large oriole windows. When she turned around, removed the hood that had concealed her features and offered him her hand to shake, Franklin was taken aback by the intensity of her green eyes.
“I’m Sixtine Desroches. How do you do.”
“I have an appointment with Jessica Pryce,” Franklin said, still tense, still staring.
“Yes, that’s me. I don’t go by that name anymore.”
The detective smiled. “Starting out a new life?”
“Avenging the old one.”
Franklin remained speechless long enough to let the pieces come together in his mind. As staggering as the transformation was, by scanning her face carefully, he could just about reconcile the thin, grey-haired, green-eyed woman before him with the one that had been all over the papers a few months before. There was something magnetic about this young woman, pulling him in whole, rendering him powerless. Was it because he knew what she had gone through, which went beyond what he thought any human could survive?
Or was it because he couldn’t fathom how fiercely alive she seemed, more so than anybody he had ever met?
“Please take a seat,” she said, almost charmed by his speechlessness.
“Yes,” the detective replied, as if he was coming out of a trance. “Yes, and… thank you for the clothes.”
On arrival at the airport, he had been handed a handsome set of calfskin luggage containing toiletries and clothes. He had stepped out of the chauffeur-driven limousine and in the Gran Hotel wearing a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit that looked tailor-made. Standing under the majestic triple-domed glass ceiling, he had felt the crispness of the Egyptian cotton against his skin and, just for a moment had let himself believe that this was the life for which he had been made – an intoxicating feeling.
Sixtine casually took a file from a low table, and flipped it open.
“Franklin G. Hunter. Six foot one, a hundred and eighty-five pounds, sixteen neck, forty-two chest, thirty-eight waist. Did we get this right?”
“Almost,” Franklin said, grinning. “Judging from my slightly expanding waistline, your information must be about a year out of date.”
Sixtine looked him up and down, an amused smirk on the co
rner of her mouth. “We allowed for that, that’s why it fits so perfectly.”
Before Franklin could respond, she turned a page from the file. “Born November 16th, 1957, in Minneeapolis – a Scorpio – the son of George Hunter, an antique dealer, and Cecilia Jones, a midwife. Loves to play golf and poker, and enjoys Bordeaux wine and holidays in Key West.”
Franklin’s smiled faded as she continued to read.
“You studied criminology and were admitted to the FBI Academy in 1985. In 1987, you married your high-school sweetheart, Annette Washington, a painter, with whom you have two boys and one daughter, born in 1992, 1997 and 2000 respectively. After becoming Special Agent Hunter in 1989, you rose quickly through the ranks, and your colleagues remember you as an intelligent, competent man, but with a tendency to operate alone and bend the rules. In 2000, the “Art Crime” unit was created with offices in Philadelphia, with you as its sole agent and the express mission of monitoring and investigating the trafficking of works of art. Over the years, illegal trade in art and antiquities increased and your unit grew; there were twelve people under your command in 2010. Twice, first in 2001 and then in 2004, you were reprimanded for breaking with Bureau protocol, but in 2009, you received the Peruvian Legion of Honor for ensuring the safe return of one of Peru’s most valuable antiques, a massive gold Inca ornament. You obtained it during the illegal search of goods that were being smuggled into the United States by the Panamanian ambassador. And in January 2011, you began investigating the rumor that Tutankhamen's funeral mask had been stolen.”
Sixtine stopped to study his reaction, but Franklin did not give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Studying his gold cufflinks, he pleaded, “Don’t stop. You are just getting to the good part.”
“Alright then. Despite doubts both from within your team and the Bureau at large, you committed a substantial portion of your budget and resources to the Tutankhamen case. In March 2011 you ignored a direct order to suspend the investigation and, instead, went ahead and organized an expensive undercover sting operation in Miami. In the investigation that followed, one of your agents testified to your, I quote, ‘unhealthy obsession with the case’. That was followed by a string of offences: intimidating witnesses, manipulating exhibits, falsifying evidence and even attempting bribery. After a disciplinary hearing and subsequent trial, you were fired from the FBI and got a two-year suspended sentence, based mainly on the testimony of the agent who uncovered your wrongdoings and who you then subsequently tried to bribe… Special Agent Aziza Rust.”
Franklin stared blankly out the window as Sixtine resumed reading, the tone of her voice more somber than accusing, “Your divorce was finalized three months later, giving your ex-wife sole custody of your children. You do not have a registered detective agency in Philadelphia, and before I contacted you, the anonymous client who you claimed had been financing your search for Tutankhamen's mask… was you.”
A flock of starlings raced around the steeples of the Metropolitan Cathedral as crowds of pedestrians milled around the plaza at its foot. Looking at the Catholic church, Franklin Hunter thought of the act of confession and was suddenly ashamed of the borrowed clothes, now slick with perspiration despite the cool of the air-conditioned suite. For a moment, he considered offering to return the money that Sixtine had already paid. But he needed it for the last shot at a new life.
There was nothing left to give, not even his word.
The least he could do was offer an explanation, but as he turned to face her, he saw something that did not compute.
She was smiling.
“Mr. Hunter, you are exactly the man I need.”
43
“Whoever locked me in the pyramid has found me. I guess I should take it as a warning. What do you think?”
Spread on the expensive carpet of the suite between Sixtine and Franklin was the bloody sheet that had been draped over the Aztec goddess. Sixtine had told the detective about the events in the museum and the unexplained appearance of the message written in red. Franklin kneeled to inspect it.
“Yes, I’d say made their intention pretty clear.”
“Good. I have decided to ignore it.”
“Not be the best path to a long and happy life”.
“My shot at a long and happy life died in a pyramid five months ago. All I want is to find my husband’s killer, and get justice. I came here looking for the truth, and I didn’t think I was making much progress. But this changes everything.”
Sixtine stared down at the red writing.
“This tells me two things. One–”
“That the killer has found you.”
“And two, that I’m closer to the truth than I thought.”
Franklin nodded.
“If he threatens you–”
“You’re assuming it’s a man.”
“85.3% of homicides are carried out by men, and female murderers kill members of their intimate circle in 62% of cases. Do you suspect a sister, a girlfriend, a mother perhaps?”
Sixtine shook her head, her gaze falling to the floor.
“Then the odds are you’re looking for a man. A man with considerable connections. If he went to the trouble of pulling that spectacular stunt, it’s likely that he feels threatened. You’re right, you must have hit a nerve. Do you know what it could be?”
“I don’t, but I know this: I won’t be threatened and I won’t be a victim again. And that’s where you come in.” Sixtine stood defiantly before him. Her green eyes had become dark pools of fierce determination. “I want you to teach me how to fight back.”
Franklin touched the red lettering, feeling the texture of the paint. He breathed deeply and sighed. “How do you intend to fight them, exactly? I can think of many candidates far better suited to the job.”
“The illegal trade of antiquities. It’s got to start there. The black market, the criminal syndicates running it, the collectors and their dirty secrets – you know them all. I can’t think of anybody better suited. Especially when we throw in your… how shall I put it? Idiosyncratic skills?” she smiled mischievously.
“How much time do I have to complete your education?”
“Three days.”
Franklin raised his eyebrows, and burst out laughing. “Let me get this straight. You flew me all this way so you could cram in three days what it took me thirty years to learn.”
“You’ll be surprised. Since my little holiday in an Egyptian pyramid, I tend to learn fast. Very fast.”
“That may be, but I can’t teach that fast. I’m an old man.”
Sixtine could see the doubt on Franklin’s face, but beneath it was a desire for redemption as strong as her resolve.
“I know that Tutankhamen has been your curse,” she said. “But I believe you. The mask must be the key to what happened to my husband and me. Or at the very least, our way in. I don’t have much else. And besides… who else has got as unhealthy an obsession for this case as me?”
The detective smiled. “Okay, fine. As long as I get to keep the suits.”
“Done,” exclaimed Sixtine, collapsing into a deep armchair. “Now, Franklin. Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”
He shook his head wearily, “A lot of things you would not believe.”
Sixtine laughed. “Try me.”
Franklin hesitated. “What if the buyer of the Tutankhamen mask was… your husband?”
Sixtine’s dark green eyes flashed at the detective like a predator watching its prey. But she held her tongue.
Feeling that he had nothing left to lose, Franklin took the drink and proceeded to tell her about his conversations with the Scultore, Zahara and Max.
“We know that Hassan and Al-Shamy were sparing no resource to find the mask, and that wasn’t lost on Nasser Moswen. Him and his acolytes were so desperate that they would have sold it to anyone, because every day that passed increased the risk that they would be caught with the stolen mask. Word would have got around, and spread in much wider circles than the
usual suspects on the antiquities black market. I guess any keen collector willing to take a risk could have had a shot… especially since it was such a bargain.”
“Seth was a keen collector of Egyptian antiquities,” Franklin continued carefully. “Being able to get hold of one of the greatest treasures for a song would have been a temptation that few could have resisted. Hassan swore that if he caught those responsible, he would make an example of them. Is it too far-fetched to imagine that it was Hassan and Al-Shamy who took Seth into the pyramid? Who else but a member of the SCA could know about Room X? They murder Seth and bury you alive, and two weeks later, they show Moswen the results – the ensuing combination of fear and guilt driving him insane.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” interrupted Sixtine. “They had a perfectly fake Tutankhamen. Why didn’t they put this one in the pyramid, and the real one back in the museum? It would have sent the same message.”
“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this is what happened.”
“And Mexico?”
“Hassan and his cronies had the resources and the contacts to organize a kidnapping if they needed to.”
Sixtine considered the detective’s words. She swirled the ice cubes in her glass, her gaze lost in the tiny maelstrom. Some shadow passed in the emerald eyes.
There was no mistaking it now, Franklin thought. It was the same hungry look he had seen too often, staring back at him from his own reflection. The all-consuming need for vengeance.
“Today is the twenty-fourth of October,” she said with cold finality. “In four days I am traveling to Paris for the Nefertiti sale, and I am ready to bet that my husband’s killer will be there. So we should get to work, shouldn’t we?”
44
Florence hung up the phone. Franklin Hunter had admitted to his past as a disgraced FBI agent, then went on to tell her of his encounter with Zahara. The first real piece of evidence. He ended with his suspicions that Hassan and Al-Shamy had murdered Seth and then driven Moswen insane.
The Pyramid Prophecy Page 22
