“Sixtine, nice to meet you.”
For such a small woman with such a soft voice, she had a formidable handshake. Her young face showed both authority and fatigue. A pair of little red glasses slipped on her nose, but she supported her gaze.
“Have we met before?” Cheryl asked with a perplexed expression on her face.
“I don’t think so. Maybe you’ve met my husband, Seth Pryce.”
“A philanthropist whose generosity was appreciated. I met him several times. He did a lot for the Egyptian Antiquities Department. He was a friend of my director, Frederick Montecito. He was at your wedding, I think.”
She stopped suddenly, and her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, my God. You are…” Her voice trailed off and she gasped. “Oh God. The pyramid.”
Sixtine nodded, but before Cheryl could react, she said, “My husband’s entire Egyptian collection has been sent to Sotheby’s, I imagine your museum will want to acquire pieces. But about the mummy – ”
“This is no longer my museum,” Cheryl interrupted. “I was dismissed after the acquisition of Nefertiti.”
The curator paused, and looked into Sixtine’s eyes, as if to tell her she too had secrets to reveal. “From now on, I work here, in the conservation of the rare book collection. Among other things, the Club has a first edition of Napoleon’s twenty-two volumes of Description of Egypt. But come to my office, it’ll be quieter and give us the privacy to talk about your mummy.”
As Sixtine followed in her footsteps, her eyes were drawn to rare books in a wire mesh display case. When her eyes landed on the volumes, a vision appeared to her, as if the Green River flowed from the window to the Persian carpet at her feet. She wanted to talk, but Cheryl was already leaving the room and she forced herself to look away from the books and follow her.
“It is no wonder there are no documents about this mummy,” Cheryl said. “It was stolen eleven years ago from a French regional museum.”
“I don’t know when my husband acquired it,” Sixtine said, defensively. “It was not among the other works in his collection. One of the servants found it in a broom closet.”
“It was reported by one of the two hundred scientists who accompanied Napoleon’s army to Egypt. That’s all we know about its origin. But the interesting thing is that it has been swaddled down.”
“Right. Okay,” Sixtine said with a frown, her tone demanding an explanation.
“It was one of the specialties of the man who brought it back, Camille Flagnon. He organized public swaddling sessions, in front of his scientific colleagues, Egyptologists and doctors, and very often also the highest and most important of Parisian high society. There are at least three mummies who have suffered this fate. Look, the whole right side of the body, there are no more fabric strips, including on the face. It was tempting to see what a mummified body looked like, and they didn’t have the tools we have today.”
“Can we know who it is?”
“She’s a woman, given the width of her pelvis. All the growth cartilages are fused, so she was at least twenty years old. There are some degenerative lesions of cervical spinal osteoarthritis, I would say she is less than thirty years old. The skeletal analysis shows no chronic infectious, cancerous or metabolic diseases, except chronic sinusitis, due to the thickening of the bone wall of the sphenoidal sinuses. But nothing in my documentation or in the study of these photos suggests any cause of death.”
“And this?” Sixtine asked, pointing to a hole in the skull.
“It is the orifice to extract the brain at the time of mummification. And the dark mass here probably corresponds to an embalming resin.” She straightened up and sighed. “So she was a perfectly healthy young woman. Probably your age.”
“And you have no idea who she is?”
“The documents I have, mentions the hypothesis of Ankhoririou, the singer of Amon-Rê. But I am not convinced by the arguments presented.”
The curator gathered the photos and handed them to Sixtine. “It goes without saying that this mummy, having been stolen, is not something you can sell, ever.”
“It’s not the money that interests me,” Sixtine said. “At least I know whom to return it to. A French regional museum, you say?”
Cheryl scribbled the museum address on a Post-It.
“This singer,” Sixtine said, thoughtfully. “Could she have known Nefertiti, or be related to her in any way?”
“No, because Nefertiti and her husband Akhenaton established the reign of the only god Aten, who replaced Amon-Ra. I don’t see what they can have in common. Apart perhaps from the immense beauty attributed to the two women. Nefertiti means ‘The Beautiful One Has Come’, did you know that?”
“Nefertiti also died when she was barely thirty years old, didn’t she?” Sixtine pointed out.
“Yes, but it was not uncommon to die of natural causes at the age of thirty, life expectancy was very low in ancient Egypt.”
Sixtine inhaled slowly, and stared into Cheryl Wood-Smith’s eyes, and said, “For Nefertiti, we’ll never know, we never found her body.”
The curator suddenly stiffened, her eyes fixed on the pictures. The silence became thick. “We haven’t been able to study everything yet, you’re right,” she muttered. “There are still many questions left, including the question of her death. Mrs. Pryce, I don’t want to take up any of your time.”
But Sixtine remained perfectly still. “To investigate the murder of my husband and mine, in a way, I called upon someone we both know. Mr. Franklin Hunter.”
Cheryl’s gaze seemed to swim around the room for a moment, she mechanically gathered some pictures, then she walked towards the door, which she closed without a sound. When she returned to her position behind her desk, her cheeks flushed.
“I imagine,” she stammered, “that you have no advantage to reveal to anyone what Mr. Hunter may have told you.”
“I could say I would take it to the grave, but that would be in bad taste,” Sixtine retorted.
Cheryl’s facial features relaxed slightly. She sat on the edge of her office chair, hands on her lap. “I spent days studying each piece in the Nefertiti collection. When I discovered the body under the fabric was recent, I was forced to admit that the whole thing was fake. And yet, I had trouble making Mr. Hunter understand how much the counterfeiter’s job is admirable.” She sighed, grabbed the pearl necklace around her neck, and smiled. “I have trouble finding the words, but the execution, as much as the ambition, was extraordinary. After more than twenty years of experience, I can look at any part coming out of fake factories in Egypt and Asia and give you a diagnosis at a glance. The best forgeries require a long study, some even require the advice of colleagues. And I am sure that some artifacts, which have not benefited from such a study, are currently on display in our museums. But when all the evidence is gathered that it is indeed a fake, and despite all this, I am unable to find any error in execution, it is breathtaking. The only clue that can betray Nefertiti is her perfection itself.”
Cheryl seemed lost in her own admiration. But her face was covered with a shadow.
“And the body inside, of course.”
Sixtine stiffened, biting the inside of her cheek. Franklin didn’t tell her about the body. “How did you see that the body inside was a fake?”
“A bullet in the throat, it’s quick to see,” Cheryl chuckled. “All it takes is a routine scan. I’m not the only one who saw it. But no one dared to say anything.”
Sixtine’s gaze landed on the pictures on her desk. “Without the body, would you have suspected anything?”
“Not at all.”
Sixtine slowly pushed one of the pictures towards her interlocutor. “If, for example, this body had been inside, would you have discovered the imposture?”
“She died at the same age as Nefertiti. No. No, you’re right, I wouldn’t have seen anything.”
The two women stared at each other and the ticking of an antique clock on the fireplace was deafening.
&
nbsp; Sixtine gathered the pictures and stood. “Thank you for all this information, Dr. Wood-Smith. And congratulations on your new position, the library is wonderful.”
The curator already had her hand on the door handle when Sixtine remembered the Green River.
“One last question, if I may.”
“Of course.”
“Does the Club’s collection include the writings of Vivant Mornay?”
“Mornay?” Cheryl exclaimed. “Yes, absolutely. I saw one of his books in the database just yesterday. He was just a contemporary of our mummy swashbuckler.”
She typed on the keyboard of her computer, then grabbed a bunch of keys on her desk. “We have three of his works in the collection. Showcase twelve, shelf C. Come on, it’s on the way. You can read it quietly in our consultation room, there is no one there today.”
The two women returned to where they had come from, near the large elephant tusk chimney. Window 12 was where Sixtine had seen the green river flow. Her heart began to beat faster, and all her senses recorded the dark corners around her.
But when Cheryl opened the wire window, she put her hands on her hips and pouted. “That’s strange. They’re not here.”
“Could someone have borrowed them?”
“No. These books are not allowed to leave the building.”
Cheryl trotted to a golden chariot, where a solitary volume lay. She grumbled that they were not in the cart of books coming back from the consultation room either.
“You can see why they needed me. I took my post on Monday, and I’ve already found five missing books. Give me your contact information, I’ll call you as soon as they get back.”
Cheryl presented her with a leather-bound notebook and a pen. Sixtine wrote her contact information on a blank page, then paused. She scribbled a sign next to her name. “And contact me too if you ever find this in one of your books.”
Cheryl observed the page.
The double-ended cross.
“I saw it in Frederick Montecito’s office. What is it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sixtine said.
11
A few blocks away, Thaddeus opened the front door of his home in Carnegie Hill and a foreign smell floated in the air. Someone had been there.
He moved forward with muffled steps, but soon discovered the interior of the house was unchanged. Its period woodwork, antique furniture, rare carpets, thousands of books under the arches in rows, masterpieces on the walls in powder paint: everything was meticulously in its place. Even in the large room on the second floor, nothing had moved. For several minutes, he managed to convince himself that he had made a mistake.
But as soon as he stepped on the service stairs to the third floor, his throat tightened. The smell was stronger in here. Not only had an intruder come this far, but he knew what few people knew.
Thaddeus’s house was only a luxurious and anonymous showcase intended to remind the few visitors of his status as the heir to a great Italian family. A cleaning lady came every day to dust off the furniture and give it a lived-in look. She would place fresh flowers in vases, leave the newspaper of the day on the coffee table and a smell of coffee hung in the air. Thaddeus, in fact, lived on the third floor, in what was once a servant’s quarter. He had made it a loft and his artist’s studio.
No one had ever been allowed on the third floor.
He turned the key in the armored door – was it his imagination, or was the lock harder to open than usual?
He walked through the loft cluttered with wood, metal, and paint cans. He passed in front of his unmade bed, a kitchenette, headed straight for another door.
Closed.
But on the wooden frame, he saw the proof he was looking for.
A fingerprint in the dust.
He checked a cupboard in which he stored his paint cans, a Norman wardrobe with a broken foot supported by thick volumes, stained with paint. Nothing was missing here either. But the door had been opened.
He never left it open.
He wouldn’t have suspected it without that foreign scent. And the fingerprint. He felt a great emptiness. Doubts swam in his head. But his stomach became even more knotted when he thought of Sixtine. The intruder knew he wouldn’t be there. Did he know he was seeing her?
He took his phone from the chair that served as his bedside table, sat on the undone bed and dialed a number.
“Yes, sir?”
“Someone broke into my house, and he knew what he was looking for.”
“The workshop closet, sir?”
“Yes. They also knew I wouldn’t be here. Keep a close eye on Sixtine, will you?”
“That’s what I do every day, sir.”
“I know. But today in particular. Where is she now?”
“With Dr. Wood-Smith, for the mummy, sir.”
Thaddeus stopped, pressed his thumb against his lower lip and felt his heart beat faster.
Strange, he thought he had mastered his emotions by now. “It’s sooner than I thought, but I guess it’s for the best.”
“Indeed, sir. It was inevitable.”
“Don’t leave her for a second, okay?”
“All right, sir.”
After he hung up, he made himself a cup of coffee, the gurgling of the percolator filled the loft. Yes, things moved faster than he had expected, and every time he thought of Sixtine, it seemed like a hole was being dug in his chest. He loved her more and more every day.
Every day, it was more difficult to meet one’s destiny.
Every day, it was more difficult for him to keep his promises.
But many years before, he had started his quest, and he couldn’t back down. He had never been able to. Even when the sky sent him Sixtine, the greatest of all treasures.
If only he hadn’t had the ability to love, everything would have been easier.
His gaze had drifted towards the walls covered with magazine articles, drawings and paintings. He approached it and took down a portrait, painted in the style of Ingres, conservative and regal. A graceful young woman of great beauty.
He sat in the stoned chair, stained with dried paint stains. He plunged his pale eyes into the portrait, detailing all the brushstrokes, all the light. He had done it so many times, he knew it by heart. He looked at her until his heart could no longer cope, until he could no longer swallow the bitter saliva in his mouth. He stayed seated until his coffee got cold.
Then, with his limbs sore, he stood and walked to the closet. He pushed all the paint cans off his shelves, and removed the bottom, revealing a safe.
With a few turns of the dial, the armored door opened. Inside, boxes of different sizes, photos. Dollars, gold. A portrait too, a black and white photograph. The same woman as in the first picture, a little older. Next to her was a child about 12 years old. With the same eyes as Thaddeus.
In the middle of the safe, balanced one on top of the other were seven envelopes, all immaculate, about an inch thick.
Thaddeus took them out, then closed the safe. He replaced the bottom of the closet and the paint cans, then closed the blue closet.
Two minutes later, he climbed into a taxi. When he arrived at the bank, he was taken to the vault room. He placed the envelopes in one of them and closed the door.
He walked through the bank lobby and, looking at the security camera, approached the receptionist.
“Excuse me, miss, can I make a call from your phone?” he asked.
“Of course, sir.”
He dialed the number. After two rings, the phone was answered. But nothing came out of it, except the most imperceptible breath. Thaddeus did not speak either. Then he hung up.
“Were you able to make your call?” asked the receptionist.
“There was no one there.”
Then he left the building, his long and elegant silhouette blending into the New York crowd.
12
With three of them on the bike, they sped much faster than expected on a bumpy and slip
pery mud road. Soon there was no more public lighting, just the yellow halo of the lighthouse scratched by the rain. Max wondered several times if his decision had been wise, but he remembered that it was his only lead, and probably his last.
For a reason he didn’t quite understand, he was convinced that Livia was still here. It didn’t make sense, of course. But when they were about to commit a crime as twisted as Seth Pryce and the other members of Vivant Mornay’s club had imagined, then there had to be something unexpected, if not impossible in the equation.
In the darkness of the night, Max could barely see the mountains around him. As they progressed, the rain decreased. The purr of the bike, the warmth of both bodies against him, the scents of warm earth and water around him: Max felt the fatigue, almost soothed, intruding into his limbs. Dreams began to overlap with reality; the events of the last few days slowly turned into absurd adventures. The hostesses laughed with the driver, there were long corridors in the bar, and the moth metamorphosed into Livia.
Then there was the name Sixtine in the wind.
Sixtine. Sixtine is a beautiful name.
He opened his eyes suddenly, his mind suddenly alert.
“What?” He grabbed the driver of the motorcycle and turned around to Bian, who was laughing. She had to scream to be heard over the noise of the machine.
“Sixtine, what does that mean?”
It took him a moment to make sure that Bian had spoken, and that he had not dreamed it.
“It is inspired by the Sistine Chapel,” he stammered. “You know, in the Vatican, by Michelangelo? But I don’t know what that means. What does Bian mean?”
“He, or she in my case, who keeps the secret.”
Max smiled. He didn’t have time to think about a witty answer, the bike was starting to slow down. They were approaching an abandoned building by the roadside.
British Association of Speleology.
They passed a large gutted panel, lying in a gutter along the way. A few feet later, they got off the bike, and thanked the biker.
Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 53