Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Caroline Vermalle

  When Sixtine opened her eyes, a crowd had already formed around her. She could feel the warm trickle of blood oozing from a scratch on her forehead, and her arm and knees ached. Looking up, she recognized the face closest to her: the round cheeks, and that incomparable pink hair, it was the journalist she had met at the reception organized by De Bok.

  “Anything broken?” she asked.

  Despite the aches, Sixtine could feel that the damage was only superficial. She shook her head.

  “Well, you got lucky. They really could have killed you,” Florence said, extending her hand to help Sixtine up to her feet.

  “I'll be fine, thank you,” Sixtine said shaken but quickly regaining her composure.

  “Okay, if you say so,” Florence said, sounding unconvinced. But then she seemed to change tack, her voice dropping a few notches so that the rest of the dispersing crowd would not overhear, “Listen, I saw that you were bidding for Nefertiti. I'm from the BBC, and if you are feeling up to it, I’d really like to do a small interview–”

  Florence’s words trailed off as Sixtine retrieved her coat and once more wrapped herself in its warmth. As she tied the belt, she saw that the lower buttons of her shirt had been wrenched apart to reveal her tattooed midriff. When she next looked up, she saw that Florence was standing transfixed and unmoving.

  The reporter had seen the tattoo.

  55

  The sale of Sotheby's was done and dusted, and with it, the filming of the documentary on Nefertiti. Andrew Sheets told himself that he deserved at least one celebratory drink. Or as many as he could get away with before passing out.

  It was no fun unless there were others who could testify to his heroics to the rest of the office. In this respect, Robin and John had turned out to be completely useless, calling it quits after only four beers, and Mornay could never be counted on even if she was brave enough to join them.

  So at almost midnight, Andrew was feeling a buzz from the few drinks that he had managed to get down his throat, and he was in Montmartre: all the ingredients, if not the company, were in place for an epic Parisian night. The streets of nearby Pigalle promised dreamers like him a pathway to paradise fueled by exotic drugs, mysterious girls or sordid poets. He settled down in the darkest bar he could find, and began drinking until adventure came knocking.

  Despite his early optimism, it did not.

  At around two in the morning, Andrew toppled his half-full glass of cognac onto the cracked mosaic floor. A waiter threw him out, before shutting the bar door and leaving him shouting in the empty street. Inside, sitting by the window, the last remaining patron concealed beneath a shapeless hat and nursing his own drink, chuckled.

  Andrew cursed him too.

  But he was damned if he was going to let go of his Parisian night. He recovered enough to stagger along the pavement battered by a vicious October wind, until he arrived in front of the two hundred and twenty-two steps of the long and solitary staircase of the Butte. Through his alcoholic haze, the night rippled and the stairs snaked their way down over two hundred and twenty-two gray scales.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he told himself, there was the red-light district, the last port of call for night-time explorers. Then he began to descend.

  The fog had wet the worn stone steps and enveloped the old street lamps with a pale veil. Not a soul went up or down. The last leaves on the stripped branches clung to the night as tightly as Andrew held onto the cast iron banister. The headlights of a taxi illuminated for a moment a figure lurking against a wall tagged with graffiti, casting a lengthening shadow before disappearing around a bend and leaving everything as it was.

  Somewhere, a dog barked. Despite the warm buzz of the alcohol, Andrew shuddered.

  He hurried and in his haste, slipped on one of the steps. In an instant, he lay flat on his back on the paved landing, and the big gray snake seemed to constrict around him. Then he heard the rapid patter of footsteps drawing close.

  When he looked up, the stairs still slithering around him, he saw a stranger, tall and fat. Fear froze his limbs but then melted away as he recognized the drinker in the shapeless hat, holding out his hand in a gesture of help.

  “Thanks,” Andrew said, his heart still beating fast as the man helped him to steady himself. He grabbed onto the icy handrail again and giggled, his breath stinking of alcohol.

  “Slippery buggers, aren’t they?”

  The man, too, was swaying and distorting under Andrew's dilated pupils, but through the fog and the haze, he saw a strange smile etched on the other’s face. The Englishman tried to fill the silence with more slurred small talk:

  “I wanted to visit Pigalle, but I think it's time I called it a night. A man should know when to quit. Right?”

  He turned to go back up the stairs, but the man grabbed his arm and said in a honeyed voice, “But you and I have hardly met.”

  Andrew pulled his arm away and stammered, “No, it's okay, man, really, okay.”

  Realizing that gravity could be a better ally, Andrew changed direction and stumbled down the stairs as fast as he could manage, before hearing the man call out:

  “Andrew Sheets, do you want information about Nefertiti or not?”

  Andrew stopped in his tracks and turned around. Above him, the man in the hat was still smiling and was descending slowly towards him. He might be drunk, but his ambition was always sharp.

  “How? And what?” Andrew asked.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” the man said working his mouth around the words, his accent Russian, or perhaps Polish. “In exchange, let's say I can give you some leads.”

  “About the discovery of Nefertiti?”

  “Yes, that, and on the case of Cheops.”

  “The murder of Seth Pryce? What does it have to do with Nefti.. Nefertiti?

  “Everything. Without Nefertiti, there is no murder. Without the murder, there is no Nefertiti.” The man smiled that same distant smile, “All this is just, how are you saying, the tip of the iceberg. But maybe we can have that last drink in Pigalle. What do you say?”

  His senses may have been dulled, but his instinct for a story was a shot of pure adrenaline, and even though Andrew struggled to make out the face of the man a few feet away from him, he had no trouble reading the citation on the awards that would be waiting for him. But then he remembered the hand on his arm, and the cajoling voice and some faintly recognizable part of his brain told to be cautious.

  “Wait, first tell me what the favor is.”

  “Oh, just a little thing,” the man said, smiling more broadly now.

  “All the same,” Andrew squirmed. “Just to be sure that we are on the same page, so to speak.”

  The man shifted his stance so that the light crept under the peak of his hat. His skin was smooth and pale and glistened, seeming more reptilian than human.

  “Just ensure that Florence Mornay-Devereux is kept out of the picture.”

  Andrew let out a gritty laugh that almost threw him off balance. “Mornay! Ha!” He gripped the stranger’s shoulder to steady himself and shook his hand vigorously. “It’s a deal! I knew tonight would be a good night. Ha!”

  As they turned and descended the stairs together, Andrew was sure that beneath the smell of wine on the stranger’s breath, he caught a whiff of something else, a mineral scent that he could not quite place. Intoxicated by drink, the success that he was sure to come, and the looming lights and sounds of Pigalle, Andrew clapped his new comrade on the back and blustered, “So, let us seize what remains of this Parisian night. What do you say, Mr…?”

  The stranger hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Oxan Aslanian.”

  56

  Florence sat on the edge of the bed in her hotel room. Beside her lay a packed suitcase, her pink backpack and a ticket for a flight to Cairo that departed in a few hours. Her face was illuminated by the blue glow of her smartphone as she read, for the third time, the message from the surgeon friend of her father, to whom
she had sent Seth Pryce’s autopsy report.

  High levels of bilirubin, alkaline phosphatase, and gamma-glutamyl transpeptidase, the presence of sclerosing cholangitis: the victim had a cholangiocarcinoma, a cancer attacking the intrahepatic bile ducts.

  The surgeon went on to explain the symptoms, acute abdominal pain, fatigue, weight loss, and even vomiting and itching. The autopsy showed that the patient did not have enough healthy liver for ablation to be possible. Dr. Maleh’s explanations were specific and cloaked in jargon that Florence did not fully understand, but his conclusion was clear enough.

  Seth Pryce had only a few months to live. And he knew it.

  Florence tried to re-arrange the puzzle in her head. But there were so many pieces. Seth Pryce knew he was going to die, and so had nothing to lose. The disappearing helicopter and the purchase of Tutankhamen’s mask that would have been impossible to sell, along with the macabre scene in the pyramid all pointed to someone trying to realize some teenage dream of Egyptian deification. If that was true, then he must have ordered the flowers himself.

  But then, what was the role of Al-Shamy and Hassan?

  Florence hurriedly tapped out a reply to the surgeon, asking the question that only a few minutes ago would have seemed ridiculous. Yet now it was entirely possible.

  Did Seth Pryce commit suicide?

  Once the message was sent, she dialed Max's number. This time he picked up and without greeting, said excitedly, “Flo, I think I found the passage.”

  Florence almost dropped her phone. “Max, tell me you're not kidding.”

  Max laughed and told her about his meeting with Naya. “Sorry, I am so excited, but you called me, right? What’s up?”

  Florence struggled to contain her excitement. Finally, everything was falling into place.

  “Listen, I don’t know all the details yet, and it’s all moving so fast, but I just found out that Seth Pryce had terminal liver cancer. And to top it all, I just met his wife, under very bizarre circumstances.”

  “Sixtine?” Max asked, cutting her off.

  “No, Jessica, Jessica Pryce. Who is Sixtine?”

  Max did not answer.

  “Max?”

  “How do you know it was Jessica Pryce?” he asked.

  “I saw the tattoo on her stomach.”

  “Anyone could have that tattoo,” Max said, his voice low and urgent.

  “I saw Hunter's file and the pictures of her on the hospital bed, Max. I promise you, it's her.”

  Florence told Max about the Sotheby's auction and how Sixtine had lost in her bid to buy Nefertiti. “After we filmed the sale of the mummy yesterday, the team went back to London. But I had a hunch she would be back for the second part of the sale today, so I stayed, and bingo, she was there this morning. She bought a statuette. A baboon.”

  “A monkey?” Max asked.

  Florence retrieved the glossy Sotheby’s catalog from her backpack and began to read. “Item number N-26, a canopic jar whose lid represents a baboon's head, or Hapi, one of the four sons of the god Horus. The mummy of Nefertiti, as it had been customary since the advent of the New Kingdom, was accompanied by four jars which were to contain the embalmed viscera of the deceased. Imsety, with a human head, received the liver. Duamutef the jackal, the stomach. Qebehsenuef, the intestines, and Hapi was the guardian of the lungs.” She looked down at the photo of the small decorated earthenware container, “It’s a bit gruesome, I know, but the auctioneer did say that they were all empty. Afterward, I saw Jessica Pryce leave in a limousine with a small crate, so I assume she must have taken it with her.” Florence paused, “But, Max, you still have not told me. Why did you say Sixtine just now?”

  “Are you still flying in tonight?” Max asked, dodging the question again.

  Florence looked at her watch and swore, “Bloody hell, I completely lost track of time. Yes, if I don’t miss my flight.” She jumped off the bed and with the phone held between her shoulder and her cheek, began to gather up her belongings.

  “Okay, well, I'll talk to you tonight then. I will wait for you at the airport,” Max said.

  After saying goodbye and hanging up, the name Sixtine was still ringing in Florence's ears. Why was Max so evasive?

  She was about to rush out of her hotel room when her phone chimed again. It was Dr. Maleh’s reply.

  The force of the blow he received to the heart was so strong that it excludes any reasonable possibility that it was self-inflicted. He also has multiple bruises on his body, which are consistent with a struggle and so I would have to agree with the finding of homicide.

  Florence inhaled deeply. Just when things were starting to fall into place, they were getting complicated again. At least the mystery of the passage was looking like it was going to be solved, and tonight she'd get Max to sign the papers and they would celebrate the start of their glorious project together.

  Her heart swelled with excitement at the prospect.

  As she was about to leave, someone knocked on her door. She pulled it open the door, her suitcase in her hand. At the sight of her visit, she sighed.

  “Oh Andrew, what are you doing here?”

  57

  The pain was immediate and excruciating and took hold of every atom of Franklin’s body.

  He didn’t know how he had managed to escape into the maze of Boulaq streets, and from there found a hiding place in the rusted carcass of an old car. He curled up where the rear seats used to be, as blood ran from the gunshot wound. He couldn’t see beneath his shoulder blade, but he knew it was bad.

  The call of the muezzin began its long lament and silenced all the other sounds of Cairo. His instinct was to call for help, but the street he had fled to was deserted, and the traffickers may yet be close behind. His body screamed against even the slightest movement, and even in the heat of the afternoon, Franklin Hunter was cold. A few blocks away, the local merchants were setting up the barricades that protected them and their wares from thieves. Boulaq was closing in on him. Night would soon fall.

  He had been right, after all. He had got what he wanted. Evidence to prove to the world that he had been right. But was being right worth dying for?

  He thought about his daughter and his wife, on the other side of the world. With his strength waning, he managed to grab his cell phone out of his pocket. There was power for only one phone call. He was a fugitive, wanted for Zahara’s murder. As he pulled the phone up to his face, he wondered if fate would allow him one last SOS.

  Save my soul – or what is left of it.

  He dialed the number he had sworn never to call. The Eye.

  With each ring that went unanswered, his hope diminished. Then he heard the words.

  “Aziza Rust, how can I help?”

  58

  In an alley behind the Louvre, Sixtine watched the rain fall.

  The dim grey light and the patter of drops on the cobbles had lulled her into a sudden and yet welcome state of listlessness. She should have been nervous, even tortured with doubt.

  For the first time since the nothingness of the pyramid, she felt deeply serene. She was certain that in a few hours, it would all be over.

  The end of fear, the end of history, the end of the world.

  The end of the nightmares.

  She knew that fate had already set the path. She just needed to float to the inevitable.

  Water from a canopy dripped onto her gray hood and splattered onto her black boots. Han stood on the other side of the street with an umbrella in his hand. She had not told Han. All he had been asked to do was hold an umbrella, and close a door.

  But she suspected he knew.

  He watched and waited for the arrival of Al-Shamy.

  Soon, Sixtine heard footsteps. It was him. It had been so easy. All she had to say was, “I am the woman who bid on Nefertiti.” Al-Shamy had followed the instructions she had given him, he was alone and had come on foot.

  All the better, Sixtine told herself. She felt no anxiety.

 
Han stepped in to block the Egyptian’s path and Sixtine heard Al-Shamy say that he had an appointment.

  Here, in the middle of the deserted alley, standing on a sidewalk in the rain.

  Al-Shamy's raincoat was soaked and smelled of smoke. He glanced furtively around. Then Sixtine left her hiding place in the shadows.

  “Hello.”

  Han lifted up a cast iron plate to reveal a gaping hole in the sidewalk. A narrow ladder descended into a dark passage below. Sixtine led the descent into the bowels of Paris with a torch. A stench came up out of the hole and seemed to stain the rain.

  Al-Shamy looked at Han, hesitating, but Han simply smiled.

  The archaeologist swept back his raincoat and clumsily put one foot onto the top rung of the ladder. Han watched him descend, and once he had reached the bottom, he replaced the cast iron plate with a dull metal clang.

  Above Sixtine, the circle of leaden sky above them was extinguished, almost as if it had never existed. Sixtine led the curator to follow her and her torchlight into the network of disused metro tunnels.

  “Where are we going?” Al-Shamy asked.

  He had already stumbled many times trying to pick his way through the various pieces of debris that littered the floor.

  “Do you want the monkey?” Sixtine called out without turning to face him.

  Then she heard nothing except his footsteps following her.

  The beam of her lamp led them along the deserted rails. Al-Shamy was always close behind. They passed warehouses where empty carriages rested, smelling of fresh paint from graffiti bombs. They crossed places where crickets called. They negotiated a labyrinth that echoed threatening and distant noises. They walked beside immense surreal frescoes made more disturbing by the moving pool of light.

  Several hours before, Sixtine had come the same way. In spite of the big portable floodlights she had held in her hands, she had trembled in anticipation of the visions she could feel growing in her subconscious. She had walked on, teeth clenched. But the visions hadn’t come.