The Treasures of Suleiman

by The Treasures of Suleiman (retail) (epub)

  ‘It was his idea,’ Rashid lied.

  * * *

  Brandon sank rapidly to the bottom of the well, pinching his nose on the way down to equalise the pressure. His torch beam lit the sand on the bottom and he could see a slow line of tiny bubbles escaping from the aqualung equipment. The water clouded momentarily as the heavy coil of rope disturbed the silt and Brandon reached eagerly for the mouthpiece. He placed it in his mouth and turned on the valve, breathing the valuable oxygen mix. The valve showed thirty minutes of air left and he quickly donned the equipment before picking up the torch again to start searching for the tunnel he knew must exist. Immediately he saw an arched gap in the wall in line with the sand and though he realised it was probably as tall as a man, the years of deposited silt had blocked the bottom half and now it was no more than a metre high. He glided toward the entrance and peered into the darkness, not knowing how far it went or if he had enough air.

  Finally he decided he would risk it and swim for exactly fourteen minutes. If he had not reached the river by then, he would turn around and swim back before surfacing back into the well and taking his chances with the authorities. Decision made, he checked the valve one more time and swam into the darkness of the tunnel.

  He kicked steadily, making good progress. The strong beam lit up the claustrophobic tunnel before him, causing the occasional silver fish to dart away in terror from the strange intruder. In his mind he counted in time with each kick of his feet, counting down the seconds. Where possible he used the wall to pull himself along, adding extra impetus to his progress. When he had counted about twelve minutes, he stopped and swam into a sitting position against the wall. There was no sign of the tunnel reaching the river so he knew he had to swim back. He shone the torch at the gauge and stared in confusion, as it still read thirty minutes. He tapped it against the wall and was horrified when the needle spun back to the number five.

  The full horror of the situation dawned on Brandon as he realised that the gauge must have been stuck when he first entered the tunnel and in reality he had started with much less air than he had originally thought. At first he thought about swimming back but soon realised he didn’t have anywhere near enough air to reach the well. There was only one thing he could do now and that was to continue forward as fast as he could and hope there was enough oxygen to reach the river. Without further ado he struck out once again, this time kicking harder and stronger, forcing himself as fast as he could along the narrow passageway.

  * * *

  India and Rashid sat at opposite sides of the table in the tiny cabin. Hakim was outside guiding the boat downstream through the darkness. The curtains were drawn in the cabin, hiding the lights as it was forbidden to sail boats on the Nile at night. India was examining the pot carefully, turning it over and over in her hands as she contemplated the best way to open it.

  ‘We could try hot water?’ she said. ‘If it is hot enough, all this wax should melt, or we could try scraping it.

  ‘There is another way,’ said Rashid, holding his hands out to take the pot from India.

  ‘And what is that?’ asked India. ‘Because I wouldn’t want to damage…’

  Before she could say anymore, Rashid smashed the pot down onto the table, shattering it into a myriad of pieces.

  India stared at him in horror.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ she shouted. ‘That pot was over two thousand years old.’

  ‘Its value is nothing compared to what is inside,’ said Rashid, and swept the rest of the pottery shards onto the floor, leaving a tightly wrapped parcel in the centre of the table.

  India stared at it before looking up at Rashid, her throat dry with excitement.

  ‘Can I?’ she asked.

  ‘Please do,’ said Rashid, and sat closer as India undid the string around the canvas package. Inside was another bundle, though this time unbound. The fabric was softer and smoother and she gingerly unwrapped it until it was spread out over the table. It was approximately one and a half metres long by a metre wide and obviously a very fine animal skin.

  ‘Help me turn it over,’ she said, and Rashid took one end of the skin while India took the other.

  ‘Careful,’ said India, ‘we don’t want to damage it.’

  Slowly and gently they turned over the skin and laid it back on the table.

  For an age neither said anything, but eventually India let go of the breath she had been holding and spoke in a hushed tone of utter astonishment.

  ‘Oh… my… God…’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Before them, the reverse side of the gazelle skin had been completely cleaned and was covered in a design of astonishing beauty and vibrant colours. It was obviously a representation of a map but all the land areas were filled with tiny designs of buildings, people, mountain ranges and animals. On the far right edge was a long list of what was apparently Turkish writing and the large expanses of water had drawings of various ships, whirlwinds and creatures of the sea.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ said India eventually.

  ‘It is more than that,’ said Rashid. ‘Do you realise what we have?’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘What we have here is the missing half of the Piri Reis map.’

  Chapter 12

  Egypt

  Brandon kicked on, desperate to reach the end of the tunnel, always aware that the passage was leading gently downwards. He glanced at the gauge.

  ‘One minute,’ it screamed back at him and he kicked with renewed vigour before stopping in confusion. The sand floor beneath him rose rapidly until there was only a small gap between the sand and the tunnel roof. For a second he stared, realising that he could go on no further.

  In desperation he pointed the torch into the narrow opening and could just make out that the sand fell away a few yards further on and the walls on either side disappeared.

  ‘This must be it,’ he thought, ‘the end of the tunnel.’

  He started to scoop away the sand as fast as the restricted conditions allowed, lowering the level just enough to squeeze his body through. A loud beeping rang in his head and he had to draw harder to get any oxygen, his bottle was almost empty. After a second’s thought, he removed the tank set from his back and pulled it alongside him, giving himself a little more headroom. He had reached over halfway when his air finally gave out completely and with an air of panic, he discarded the bottles and torch and squeezed himself desperately between the remaining sand and the passage ceiling. The darkness was complete and the sense of claustrophobia overwhelming. The beneficial effects of the last of the oxygen had almost gone when he finally pulled himself free into the green expanse of murky Nile water. With the last of his energy and with his body desperately demanding he breathe in the water, he pushed himself off the bottom and swam upward to the surface.

  * * *

  Anyone sat on the banks of the Nile just below Kom-Ombo that night would have heard Brandon coughing and gasping for breath as his head burst from the depths and he forced the life-giving air into his lungs. For almost a minute, he coughed and spluttered, calming himself down as he contemplated how close he had come to death. At first, his current predicament was far from his mind as he floated on his back, allowing the Nile current to carry his aching body slowly under the Egyptian stars, but eventually he realised how cold he was and knew he had to get to the shore. He estimated he was near the centre of the river and turned over to start swimming toward the shore where he could see lights along the bank. A few minutes later he could see a row of the smaller tourist boats moored alongside each other and though he realised it was the middle of the night, he could hear the clink of glasses and laughter as some people did what western tourists did so well. Although Brandon was a strong swimmer, the time he had spent in the well, the tunnel and river had taken its toll and he knew he couldn’t go on much further. He made a decision and after struggling out of his wetsuit, called out toward the boat.

  ‘Help!’ he shouted.
‘Can anyone hear me?’

  * * *

  The conversation on the boat stopped for a moment and a torch shone over the edge, searching the surface of the water.

  ‘Hello,’ called an English voice, ‘is there someone out there?’

  ‘Over here,’ shouted Brandon, treading water. A few seconds later he was dazzled with the torch beam and the deck burst into life.

  ‘There he is,’ shouted a man, ‘someone grab a life-ring.’

  A bright red life-ring splashed alongside Brandon and he grabbed it in relief. A few minutes later he was being hauled up onto the deck by several pairs of hands and he sat shivering as a group of British tourists gathered around him, some still clutching their glasses of whisky tightly in their hands.

  ‘Good God, he is freezing,’ one said. ‘Let’s get him inside.’

  Two men helped Brandon into a lounge area and gave him a blanket and a hot cup of tea.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked the first man.

  ‘I think so,’ said Brandon, ‘thank you.’

  ‘A Brit,’ said the man. ‘Jesus Christ, man, what on earth were you doing out there?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Brandon, thinking furiously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man, ‘I’m being extremely rude.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am David. David Watkins.’

  ‘Brandon Walker,’ said Brandon. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘What on earth happened to you, Brandon?’ asked David.

  Brandon had worked out a story he thought would work.

  ‘I had come here on holiday with two friends,’ he said. ‘We hired a felucca in Aswan and were sailing down the Nile when my friend had a call and had to return to Britain straight away due to a family emergency. They left but insisted I stay to finish my holiday, so I hired a boat somewhere upstream with a local guide. I was hoping to sail for a week, do a bit of fishing and then get the train to Cairo before flying home.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago, I awoke and found the guide going through my things,’ Brandon lied. ‘There was a struggle and I ended up overboard.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘how awful. You could have been killed.’

  ‘We should ask Mustapha to call the Egyptian police,’ said David, referring to the boat’s captain.

  ‘Perhaps in the morning,’ said Brandon, ‘but to be honest, all I want to do is go home. This trip has been a disaster since we started. All my documents were in my pack, passport, money, everything, but if I could borrow a phone I can organise replacements to be delivered to the British Embassy in Cairo.’

  ‘No problem,’ said David, ‘we are on our way to Cairo ourselves, so why don’t you stay on board and relax for a few days. I will pay the captain for your fare and you can pay me back when your documents come through.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Brandon, ‘but I was hoping there would be a train I could catch as soon as possible. It’s my own stupid fault, I should have stuck to the tour operators instead of trying to save a few quid.’

  ‘I understand,’ said David. ‘I think there’s a station at the next stop. I’ll arrange a cabin for tonight and tomorrow we’ll get you on a train to Cairo. You can arrange the transfer direct into my account. Does that work?’

  ‘That is very kind of you,’ said Brandon, ‘thank you very much.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ said David, ‘us Brits need to stick together in times of crisis. Right, let’s see if we can find you some clothes and some hot food.’

  Another tourist lent him their mobile phone and Brandon finished his coffee before dialling the one number he knew could help.

  ‘Hello, Mike?’ he said into the phone eventually.

  ‘Brandon,’ said the voice, ‘how you doing?’

  ‘Not good, Mike,’ said Brandon, ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Brandon, the prearranged code words immediately alerting Mike that he couldn’t speak freely, and continued to repeat what he had just told the tourists. Mike was a close friend who had served with Brandon in the special forces intelligence unit, and though Brandon had formally left the service, they had kept in close contact and Mike often worked for Brandon in his detective agency.

  ‘What do you need?’ asked Mike.

  ‘Passport,’ said Brandon, ‘some cash, credit cards, phone, and can you sort out some clobber as well.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Mike. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll need you to transfer some money into another account to pay some bills I’m running up, and can you book me on a plane from Cairo to Athens.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Mike. ‘Can you get to the train station by four o’clock tomorrow?’

  ‘Should be OK,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Good, I’ll have someone meet you there with the goods. Meet him at the tower at the corner of the station. Red tie OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Brandon, ‘I’ll meet him there. Hang on a second, Mike,’ he continued, as he saw David returning with an Egyptian man wearing a uniform.

  ‘Right,’ said Dave, ‘this is the purser. If your friend wants to transfer some funds to the holiday agent’s account, he can give you some cash to tide you over.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Brandon, and handed the phone over to the purser.

  ‘We have organised a cabin for you,’ continued Dave, ‘and I have put one of my suits in there. It’s probably a bit big but should sort you out for a day or so. You go and grab a shower and we’ll see you in the morning, unless, of course,’ he said, lifting his whisky glass, ‘you wish to join us.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ laughed Brandon, ‘a shower and a clean bed sound really good at the moment.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said David, ‘you get some rest and we’ll see you at breakfast. Good night, Mr Walker.’

  Brandon said his good nights and was led away to his cabin, still wrapped in his blanket.

  * * *

  By two pm the following day Brandon was on a train to Cairo, having left the helpful people on the boat behind him. Though he was frustrated over the time it was taking, he knew he had to be careful not to raise too much suspicion or there could be awkward questions asked. The borrowed suit he was wearing was sodden with sweat by the time he reached the station and as he was a few hours early, he took the opportunity to grab a meal before going to the agreed meeting place. Outside the corner of the train station, a guy in cream slacks, white shirt and red tie stood leaning against the wall alongside a red suitcase.

  Brandon walked over and introduced himself.

  ‘Hi, I’m Brandon Walker,’ he said. ‘I think you have something for me.’

  The guy lowered his newspaper and looked over his glasses at him.

  ‘Really,’ he said. ‘And can you prove that?’

  ‘Ah, not really,’ he said.

  ‘Then let me ask you a question, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘If you are indeed who you say you are, what drink does Mike hate?’

  Brandon smiled as he remembered the one drink his friend couldn’t touch, ever since they had got hammered at his twenty-first birthday celebrations many years ago.

  ‘Pernod,’ he said with confidence.

  The man reached in his pocket and tossed Brandon a key.

  ‘Have a nice day, Mr Walker,’ he said, and walked away without another word.

  ‘That was short and sweet,’ thought Brandon, and picked up the case before making his way back to the taxi rank. Half an hour later he was in a hotel room with the suitcase contents spread over the double bed.

  There were a couple of packs of underwear, a few pairs of brand new shorts and a couple of polo shirts, all in his size and obviously bought that day by one of Mike’s contacts. An envelope contained three credit cards in his name as well as a thousand dollars in cash, and a printed e-mail confirming a seat on a plane to Athens for the following morning.

 
He opened a box containing a new mobile phone and smiled as he noticed that not only was it fully charged but also programmed with all of his main contacts. Mike had thought of everything and must have e-mailed a copy of his phone list to his contact in Egypt. He scrolled down the list until he found India’s number, trying it several times without success before leaving her a message.

  He scrolled to a second number and dialled the Greek police officer in Samothrace, this time relieved as someone picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Adriano Boulos,’ said a voice.

  ‘Adriano,’ said Brandon, ‘it’s Brandon Walker.’

  ‘Brandon, thank God you called. I’ve been trying to reach you and Miss Summers for days.’

  ‘A lot has happened,’ said Brandon ‘and I think India is in danger.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Adriano, ‘that’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. That man who travelled with you from Samothrace to Athens is not what he seems. He is a wanted murderer.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Brandon, ‘he left me for dead in Egypt and has disappeared with India.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Adriano.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to tell you over the phone. Suffice to say India is in real danger and I have no idea where this man has taken her. The only clues to all this mess are still in the safe in the hotel. I need you to go there, retrieve the biscuit tin and meet me in Athens tomorrow morning. Is that possible?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Adriano, ‘though they won’t open the safe for me, you will have to give permission.’

  ‘Can’t you flash your police identification?’

  ‘Brandon, I am already walking very close to the edge here. So far I have managed to keep the Gatilusi investigation away from the rest of the force but I can’t keep doing that and still invoke the authorities without attracting suspicion.’

  ‘OK,’ said Brandon, ‘leave that to me. I will make the arrangements and ring you back with the details.’ He hung up and phoned the hotel, finally managing to get through to the hotel manager, Mr Maragos. At first he was very reluctant to agree with the request to open the safe without Brandon being present but after explaining that it would be a member of the police picking up the package and arranging authorisation to be sent from his own detective agency’s e-mail address, the manager finally relented and agreed to the request.