The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  THE CASE OF THE GOLDEN GREEKS

  THE MASKED MAN OF CAIRO

  BOOK THREE

  By Sean McLachlan

  To Almudena, my wife

  And Julián, my son

  Copyright 2019 Sean McLachlan, all rights reserved

  Cover design courtesy Andrés Alonso-Herrero

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cairo, Autumn 1919

  The talk at the Geographical Association of Egypt would have been perfect except for the presence of an unwelcome husband and a hidden murderer.

  Sir Augustus Wall had settled into his red velvet seat in the society’s main lecture hall, a grand auditorium seating several hundred people facing a stage. The ceiling was decorated with elaborately painted Arabic designs of stars and rosettes. Egyptian ushers in spotless white djellabas and red fezzes showed the members to their places.

  Augustus, of course, was at the center and near the front, although not too near the front. His standing in the antiquities trade demanded a prominent place. His general lack of sympathetic demeanor demanded the mild rebuke of having to look over a few rows of more prominent, and much more personable, heads.

  Sitting next to Augustus was Zehra Hanzade, a breathtakingly beautiful Ottoman woman who was a good friend, profitable business partner, and—to Augustus’s endless frustration—nothing else.

  Nevertheless, she was enchanting. She wore a shimmering emerald green caftan embroidered with gold thread, and let her luxuriant black tresses hang loose over her shoulders. Zehra chatted amiably with him about the upcoming lecture.

  “I’ve always wanted to hear Professor Harrell speak,” she said. “I’ve been following his work for many years. Who would have thought he’d make such an important discovery in such a remote place as Bahariya Oasis?”

  “Virgin territory, I suppose,” Augustus replied. “Not much work has been done except with the temple of Alexander the Great. I have a site report from the British expedition, if you’d like to borrow it.”

  Zehra’s big brown eyes flashed. “Oh, that would be lovely. I’ll come over tomorrow and fetch it.”

  Augustus felt his heart skip a beat.

  “It might give me some good ideas for work.”

  That came from Suleiman, Zehra’s husband. He sat on Zehra’s other side and Augustus had angled himself perfectly so that the thin man was entirely hidden behind Zehra’s plump, wonderfully curved frame.

  And now Suleiman had to go and ruin the illusion.

  “If you come up with anything good, be sure to give me first pick,” Augustus said, trying to maintain a courteous tone.

  Suleiman leaned forward, further destroying Augustus’ fantasy of being out alone with Zehra, and nodded. His eyes were bloodshot and hooded from his perpetual smoking of Indian hemp, but his unassuming exterior hid the fact that he was the best antiquities forger in Cairo. He was also a major supplier to Augustus’ antiquities shop. Augustus sold real antiquities only to those worthy of owning them. The tourists got fakes.

  “Ah! It’s starting,” Moustafa said.

  Moustafa, Augustus’ assistant, sat on his other side. His brawny frame barely fit in the seat. He was the only Soudanese in the audience. Zehra was one of the few women. Augustus tried to convince himself that was why the pair of Americans sitting two rows in front of him kept turning around, but he knew they were actually staring at the mask that hid his war wound.

  “It won’t start quite yet,” said Heinrich Schäfer, a German Egyptologist sitting next to Moustafa, and one of the few Europeans in Cairo Augustus thought worthy of friendship. “We have a dull introductory speech to get through first.”

  “Indeed we do,” Augustus grumbled, for who came onto the stage but the creaking mummy that ran the society, Sir Archibald Windell, who everyone at the club called “Sir Windbag” for his endless speeches that were renowned from Alexandria to Khartoum as a sure cure for insomnia.

  Augustus’ own insomnia underwent rapid treatment.

  Sir Windell gave a long, rambling talk about the importance of studying all aspects of the protectorate of Egypt, as if the assembled crowd didn’t already know that, and then launched into an anecdote about his own travels to Bahariya Oasis that was supposed to be funny and might indeed have been if anyone had gotten the joke. Finally, after a torturous half hour, Sir Windell brought himself around to introducing the speaker.

  “Dr. Thornton Harrell of Oxford University will no doubt be known to many of you as the excavator of tombs 34 and 35 at Abusir, but in recent years he’s been exploring the remains at the oases of the Western Desert. You may find preliminary accounts of these findings in the latest two numbers of The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. What he will speak of tonight is a startling discovery he made in Bahariya Oasis, one that has not yet been published in any form. The members of the society will be the first to hear it, and we have taken the liberty of not inviting the gentlemen of the press.”

  Laughter rippled through the audience. Several people applauded, Augustus included.

  “Finally,” Augustus muttered. “Old Windbag said something worth hearing.”

  “So without further ado—”

  “Thank God!”

  “—it is my honor to introduce to you, Professor Thornton Harrell of Balliol College, Oxford.”

  A slim, middle-aged man with a deep tan rose from the front row and sprang onto the stage. Shaking Sir Windell’s hand, he immediately got between the head of the society and the lectern, thereby stopping him from coming back to say anything more. The crowd thundered its applause.

  To everyone’s relief, Professor Harrell got straight to the point.

  “I’ve come to speak to you about a most fortunate and astonishing discovery of a tomb of the Greco-Roman period near the temple of Alexander in Bahariya Oasis. The temple was built most likely in the year 332 BC, when Alexander the Great stopped in Bahariya in order to consolidate control over the hinterland of his newly conquered territory before heading down to Memphis to consult with the oracles there. Then he returned to the oasis, and it was from Bahariya that he journeyed further on to Siwa Oasis, almost to the border with present-day Italian Cyrenaica, the land of the ancient Libyans. At Siwa the priest of Amun-Re revealed, or was made to reveal—” this brought chuckles from the audience “—that Alexander was the living embodiment of the sun god, and thus pharaoh. It was mostly likely on his way back from this famous meeting that he commissioned the temple in his own honor at Bahariya, it being unique among pharaonic temples in that it was built in honor of a living pharaoh rather than in honor of one deceased. The interior decoration shows Alexander offering to Amun-Re. Alexander’s cartouche is on a portion of the wall nearby.

  “It was while surveying this temple that I made the most interesting discovery of my career, or should I say our water boy did. Young Hamza was leading a donkey to the nearest well in order to top up our supplies when the animal’s leg broke through the surface. Hamza had some trouble extricating the poor donkey, and when he did, he saw that the hole led down into a sizeable underground chamber. He immediately ran back with the news.

  “Upon investigating the hole, I discovered that it broke through the ceiling of a tomb. A rectangular chamber measured twenty feet by eight, and contained three shelves on each of the walls, all filled with mummies. The mummy wrappings, while of unusual manufacture, were immediately recognizable as dating to the Greco-Roman period thanks to their style.”

  The professor motioned to someone standing at the slide projector in front of him. The lights were dimmed and the assistant placed a candle behind the projector. Immediately a glass photographic plate was projected onto a screen hanging behind Professor Harrell. Augustus leaned forward wit
h interest. It showed a stone shelf, thickly covered in dust. Three mummies lay side by side on the shelf. The dust had been cleared away from the nearest mummy to reveal a cartonnage mummy casing with a gilded head and chest. Funerary scenes featuring various Egyptian deities were embossed on the chest, while the face showed a serene smile and wide eyes. Augustus nodded. This was, indeed, in the Greco-Roman style. It was simplistic, almost cartoonish, an odd melding of ancient Egyptian styles and an earthier Classical style typical of artifacts of the common people.

  But this mummy was for no common person. The face and chest were gilded. All the previous Greco-Roman funerary masks he had seen in this style were of brightly painted plaster.

  Professor Harrell went on to explain how of a total of 82 mummies found in the tomb, twelve had gilding in this style. There were three other styles of mummy: the more familiar coffins with plaster masks like those found in numerous other sites, ceramic anthropomorphic coffins that looked eerily like human beings when still covered with dust, and bodies simply wrapped in linen, often with crude features painted on the face and a few scenes from the Book of the Dead painted on the chest. These were obviously for the poorest of the dead, although they had been well preserved because they had been wrapped in reeds.

  “We also found a great number of associated artifacts in this undisturbed tomb, including pottery dating from the third century BC to the first century AD, as well as bits of jewelry and a number of Ptolemaic coins including, most intriguingly, a coin of Cleopatra VII.”

  “A fascinating woman,” Zehra whispered to Augustus. “And a most unique manner of death, don’t you think?”

  Augustus could only nod, not trusting himself to speak. Cleopatra, after the fateful battle of Actium against the Roman legions and knowing all was lost, killed herself by clutching a poisonous asp to her breast. Any mention of breasts in the presence of such a beautiful woman as Zehra was highly disordering to the intellect. Augustus struggled to focus on the lecture. Why did Zehra torture him so?

  The slideshow lasted for about half an hour, with several more images of the tomb, an undecorated rectangular chamber with several shelves full of mummies. Close-ups of the best preserved mummies made Suleiman lean forward and study every detail with his bloodshot eyes. Augustus smiled. There would be more Greco-Roman mummies before long. Professor Harrell theorized that this tomb was not directly associated with the temple, there being no evidence of priestly burials. Rather these were notable people from the lay community—men, women, and children who wanted to gain extra favor in the afterlife by being buried close to the temple of the great Alexander.

  When the talk concluded, there was a long round of applause. Professor Harrell had made an obviously important discovery. Augustus could see Heinrich Schäfer furiously scribbling notes. He leaned over to his German friend.

  “A new chapter for your Principles of Egyptian Art?”

  “Indeed,” Schäfer replied, his pen still dancing across his notebook. “Every time I think I’m about to finish, new material gets unearthed.”

  The professor now called for questions.

  A gentleman stood, rocking slightly to and fro. The society was famous for its cocktail hours before the lectures.

  “Professor, why would the Greeks and Romans see fit to live in such a remote place?”

  “Bahariya Oasis was less remote in antiquity than it is today. It was famous for its dates and grapes, both of which were used to make wine. Also, it was an important source of iron. The next nearest source was in Meroë in present day Soudan. The settlement was quite prosperous and I estimate that it had a population of some 30,000, roughly half again the size it is today.”

  The next person to stand was an Egyptian, who asked several technical questions about the construction of the gilded mummies, such as the treatment of the gold itself, its thickness, and the materials used in the lower layers.

  Augustus glanced at Suleiman and saw that his usually glazed eyes were focused and alert.

  “Does that man work for you?” he murmured to Zehra. It gave him a good excuse to lean in close to her.

  She smiled at him. “For tonight at least.”

  “One or two of those gilded sarcophagi would look good in my showroom.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Once the Egyptian was done, an Englishman stood.

  “Professor, I was wondering if you found evidence of other tombs, and if you have an estimate of how extensive this necropolis might be.”

  Professor Harrell nodded and said. “A most interesting question. We found—AH!”

  The professor went stiff, slapped the back of his neck, and put his other hand to his chest. As a murmur went through the crowd he swayed back and forth, his face going pale, and then fell face first with a bang on the lectern.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Moustafa Ghani El Souwaim acted on instinct. He leaped out of his seat, nearly knocking Herr Schäfer to the floor, and bounded down the aisle.

  “The murderer is behind the curtain!” he shouted, pointing to the curtains that hid the right side of the stage.

  It had been pure luck that Moustafa had spotted him. While the member of the audience had been asking his question, Moustafa’s gaze had strayed from the lectern and for no particular reason settled on the heavy red curtains that screened the stage’s right-hand exit.

  He’d seen the curtains part, and a vague shape behind the narrow gap. Then a blur of motion and the Egyptologist slumped on the lectern.

  Within moments Moustafa was at the front of the room and jumping onto the stage. Everyone was in an uproar. Most of the crowd was on its feet but besides a few gentlemen helping an elderly lady who had fainted, not a single one of them was doing anything useful.

  Except for his boss. Mr. Wall was just a few steps behind him.

  Moustafa glanced at the dead lecturer as he ran past. A slim metal dart with bright green feathers on the end was stuck in Professor Harrell’s neck. The man was rigid, fingers clenched on the edge of the lectern.

  That’s all Moustafa had time to see as he ran to the curtains and, taking a step to the side, opened them.

  Beyond he saw a room empty of anything other than a few chairs and a schedule tacked to the wall. No one was in sight. To the left, narrow stairs ran downward.

  Moustafa angled to the left as he crossed the room to stay out of the line of fire of whoever might be at the bottom of that stairway.

  Mr. Wall took a different tactic. He angled right, drawing a compact automatic pistol from his jacket pocket and leveling it as he crossed the line of fire.

  He stopped midway and then ran straight for the stairs.

  “He’s bolted,” Mr. Wall said.

  “You bring a gun to Egyptology lectures, boss?” Moustafa asked as they got to the top of the stairs.

  “As you can see, we need it.”

  Moustafa felt like saying that normal people don’t have this happen to them often enough to take such precautions, but he decided now was not the time.

  They went down the stairs, Mr. Wall leading with his gun, and came to a large storage cellar. Lit by only a single weak electric bulb at the far end above a partially obscured door, the cellar was nearly filled with stacks of chairs, old display cases, wooden crates, and what looked like the background scenery for the Christmas pantomime.

  Moustafa glimpsed a shadow move behind a stack of old desks.

  He heard a puffing sound, and jerked to the right, ducking and almost ending up on the floor. Something shot past and thunked into a chair behind him.

  Mr. Wall’s pistol barked, the flash bright in the dim room. Moustafa grabbed a table leg sitting on a work bench and threw it at the far door, which was just opening.

  He timed it perfectly and it hit the killer flat in the back as he was rushing out.

  Something clattered on the floor. The man staggered, and the door closed behind him.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Mr. Wall shouted.

  D
id his boss think he needed to be told? They got to the door and yanked it open. Just at the last moment they remembered themselves and ducked out of sight. Moustafa took a quick peek and saw the killer disappearing beyond a second door at the end of a short hallway.

  In two long strides they were to the far door. They opened it and Mr. Wall almost fired at the first thing he saw in the alley beyond.

  Faisal.

  He was sitting on the ground at the far side of the alley.

  “Where did he—” Moustafa saved his breath. The street urchin was already pointing to the left.

  The alley led to a busy sidewalk. A large evening crowd walked each direction while street vendors cried their wares.

  Moustafa pushed out into the throng and looked both ways. He hadn’t seen the killer’s face, only that he was of medium height, with a dirty white turban and simple djellaba of the same color. He thought he had glimpsed a black beard but couldn’t be sure.

  He saw dozens of men passing by who matched that description.

  He stormed past Mr. Wall, who was still gazing baffled at the crowd, and strode up to Faisal, who jumped to his feet and backed off.

  “Did you see his face?”

  “I don’t know him. What has he done?”

  “Did you see his face!”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Wall came up. “He just killed a man. Get into the street!”

  Faisal brightened. “Don’t worry, Englishman, I’ll find him.”

  Faisal ran out the alley and scampered up the nearest lamppost, leaning far out, one foot planted on one side of the post with his hand gripping the other side. He studied the crowd, looking slowly in all directions as a fat corn seller shouted at him to get down.

  After a minute he dropped to the pavement, ducked a swipe from the corn seller’s broad hand, and ran up to them.

  “Sorry. He’s gone.”

  “Would you remember him?” Mr. Wall asked.

  “Sure.”

  “What are you doing here?” Moustafa demanded. This boy was no end of trouble, always tagging along and begging Mr. Wall for money.