The Moses Stone

by James Becker

  Angela glanced back. Her pursuers had stopped on the pavement, staring towards the taxi.

  'Friends of yours?' the driver asked.

  'God, no. And thank you. Thank you so much.'

  'Right, where to, love?'

  'Heathrow airport,' Angela said, taking her mobile phone out of her handbag.

  For a few moments she looked back through the rear window at her apartment building as the cab accelerated down the road, then she dialled 999. When the operator answered, she asked for the police and told them that her flat was being burgled.

  21

  Dexter drove away from his shop in Petworth that afternoon and met a man in a café on the outskirts of Crowborough. Once they'd finished their drinks, he slid a sealed envelope across the table. In the car park outside, he removed a cardboard box from the back of the man's small white van and transferred it to the boot of his BMW. Then he drove away.

  In Petworth, he carried the box into his storeroom and lifted out the computer. He placed it on the bench that ran down the length of the room, plugged in the peripherals, and switched on. Fifteen minutes later, having connected one of his own printers, he was looking at half a dozen pictures that showed a greyish-brown oblong tablet, covered in a form of writing. They weren't particularly clear, and didn't show the inscription in anything like the detail he had hoped, but they were a lot better than the fuzzy image printed in the newspaper.

  He had not the slightest idea what the text meant, or even which language it was written in. He slipped the pictures into a manila envelope, locked the storeroom and returned to his shop. In the office at the back he had a powerful computer of his own, with a massive hard disk that contained images and written descriptions of everything he'd bought and sold over the years through the shop and, in a hidden partition protected by an eight-digit alphanumeric password, full details of all his 'unofficial' private sales as well.

  Minutes later, he was comparing the pictures he'd just printed with images of the clay tablet he'd sold to Charlie Hoxton two years before.

  He leant back, satisfied. He'd been right. The tablet was part of a set, which made it very important indeed.

  22

  'So what's the verdict?' Chris Bronson asked, as he recognized Angela's voice.

  'It's a virtually worthless clay tablet that probably dates from around the start of the first millennium,' Angela said, 'but that's not why I'm calling.'

  Something in her voice registered with Bronson. 'What's wrong?'

  She took a deep breath. 'When I came back from lunch today I found someone had searched my office.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Quite sure. It wasn't ransacked, nothing like that, but some of the papers and stuff on my desk had definitely been moved and another couple of the photographs you sent me were missing. And my computer screen was on, showing the screen-saver.'

  'Which means?'

  'The screen-saver starts after five minutes' inactivity and then runs for fifteen minutes. After that, the screen goes blank. I was out of the office for just over an hour.'

  'So somebody must have used your computer between five and twenty minutes before you came back. What was on it? Anything confidential?'

  'Nothing, as far as I know,' Angela said, 'but my screensaver's password-protected so whoever it was couldn't have accessed it anyway.' She paused, and when she spoke again Bronson could hear the tension in her voice. 'But that's not all.'

  'What else?'

  'I had a few things to do this afternoon so I left the museum shortly after lunch. A few minutes after I got back to the flat I heard a noise outside the door. When I looked through the spy-hole there were two men standing in the corridor. One of them was holding a jemmy or something like that, and the other one was carrying a gun.'

  'Jesus, Angela. Are you OK? Did you call the police? Where are you now?'

  'Yes, I called them, and I suppose there's some chance they'll send a bobby round there sometime this week, but I wasn't going to hang around waiting for him to turn up. I ran out of the back door and down the fire escape. And right now I'm heading for Heathrow.'

  'Where are you going?' Bronson demanded.

  'Casablanca. I'll let you know my flight details when I get to the airport. The flight goes through Paris with a stopover, so I'll be quite late. You will pick me up, won't you?'

  'Of course. But why—'

  'I'm just like you, Chris. I don't believe in coincidence.

  There's something about that clay tablet, or maybe what's written on it, that's dangerous. First my office, then my flat. I want to get out of the way until we find out what's going on. And I'll feel safer with you than I do here in London by myself.'

  'Thanks.' For a moment Bronson was lost for words. 'Call me when you know your flight details, Angela. I'll be at Casablanca waiting for you. You know I'll always be waiting for you.'

  23

  Two men dressed entirely in black lay on the hillside, close to a clump of low bushes, both staring through compact binoculars at the house in the valley below them.

  After Dexter had called him, Zebari had spent some time on his mobile, asking questions. The answers had led him here: the clay tablet had been stolen from a wealthy man, and this was where he was known to keep most of his collection. The house was two-storey, with a large roof terrace at the rear overlooking the garden and with views to the hills beyond. At the front was a paved parking area, protected by a pair of large steel gates.

  The property was surrounded by high walls – Zebari estimated their height at about three metres – but these wouldn't necessarily prove to be an obstacle. Solid walls could always be climbed. He was more worried about electronic alarms; and the dogs were a nuisance that he'd need to take care of. He could see two big black animals, possibly Dobermanns or similar, prowling restlessly inside the compound and peering through the closed metal gates at the road outside. But they would sleep well with a piece of raw meat each, laced with a cocktail of barbiturates and tranquillizers.

  Zebari looked around him, at the stunted bushes and shrubs that covered the top and sides of the sandy hillside he'd chosen as a vantage point. They were perhaps half a kilometre from the house, well out of sight of any guards, and he was quite certain they were unobserved.

  He glanced towards the western horizon, where the sun was sinking in a blaze of pinks and blues and purples. Sunsets in Morocco were always spectacular, particularly close to the Atlantic coast, where the clear air and gentle curve of the ocean combined to create a daily kaleidoscopic display that never failed to move him.

  'How long?' his companion asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was no possibility of them being overheard.

  'Another hour,' Zebari murmured. 'We need to see how many people are in the house before we move.'

  A few minutes later, the light faded as the sky turned a blackish purple, and then entirely black. And above them the vast unchanging canopy of the universe, studded with the brilliant light of millions of stars, was slowly revealed.

  24

  Angela Lewis stepped into the arrivals hall at Casablanca's Mohammed V Airport, looked round and spotted Bronson almost immediately. He was a couple of inches taller than most of the locals milling about, but what made him stand out was his obvious European dress – grey slacks, white shirt and light-coloured jacket – and comparatively pale face under his slightly unruly thatch of black hair. That, and his undeniable good looks, which always gave Angela a visceral thrill when she saw him.

  A sudden feeling of relief flooded through her. She'd known he'd be there, because he'd told her so, and her exhusband was nothing if not reliable, but there'd still been a slight nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Her biggest fear was that something might have happened to him, something that would leave her stranded in Casablanca by herself, and that was a prospect she'd been dreading.

  She smiled broadly and started threading her way through the crowds towards him. Bronson spotted her approaching and gave a
wave. Then he was right in front of her, his strong arms pulling her unresisting body towards him. For a few moments they hugged, then she stepped back.

  'Good flight?' he asked, taking her suitcase and laptop bag.

  'Pretty average,' Angela replied, swallowing her pleasure at seeing him again. 'Not enough leg-room, as usual, and the in-flight meal was rubbish. I'm starving.'

  'That we can rectify. The car's outside.'

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a restaurant on the southern outskirts of Casablanca, watching the waiter place a large dish of lamb tajine on the table in front of them.

  The restaurant was under half full, but Bronson had been adamant that he didn't want one of the tables by the windows, or close to the door. Instead, he had chosen one right at the back, with a solid wall behind it. And although Angela preferred to sit where she could see the other diners – she'd always enjoyed people-watching – Bronson had insisted on taking the seat that offered a clear view of the door so he could see anyone coming in.

  'You're worried about this, aren't you?' she asked.

  'Damn right I am. I don't like what's been happening here in Morocco or in London,' Bronson said. 'Something's going on, and the people involved seem to be completely ruthless, so I'm watching our backs. I don't think anyone could have followed us here, but I'm not taking any chances. Now, tell me what happened at your apartment.'

  'Just a second.' Angela's mobile had begun ringing inside her handbag, and she quickly fished it out and answered it.

  'Thanks,' she said, after a few moments. 'I knew about it. Did the police turn up? I called them when I left the flat.'

  There was another pause as the caller explained something to her.

  'Good. Thanks again, May. Listen, I'm out of the country for a few days, so could you get in a locksmith, please? I'll settle up with you when I get back.'

  Angela closed her mobile and looked at Bronson. 'That was my neighbour in Ealing,' she said. 'No surprises, except that the police did turn up – I wasn't sure they'd bother. My apartment's been thoroughly trashed. Oddly enough, it doesn't look like much, or maybe anything, was taken. May said the TV and stereo are still there, but every drawer and cupboard has been emptied.'

  'That sounds familiar,' Bronson said. 'So you scrambled down the fire escape?'

  Angela swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice was slightly unsteady. 'Yes, that's right. All I had time to do was grab my handbag and laptop, and then I just ran for it. One of the men . . .' She paused and took a sip of water. 'One of them chased me down it. The other one must have run down the stairs inside the building, because he was waiting for me when I got round to the front.'

  'God, Angela. I hadn't realized.' Bronson reached over and took her hands, squeezing them gently. 'How did you get away?'

  'I hit him with my laptop bag. It caught the side of his head, and that gave me enough time to get out on to the road. There was a black cab passing, and I ran across and jumped in. The driver saw what was happening and just drove off before the two men could grab me.'

  'Thank God for London cabbies.'

  She nodded enthusiastically. 'If he hadn't been there, they'd have caught me. There were people about, Chris, lots of pedestrians, but these guys just didn't care. I was terrified.'

  'Well, you're safe out here – I hope,' he said.

  Angela nodded and sat back in her seat. Explaining what had happened had been almost cathartic, and she felt herself regaining her normal composure.

  'The good news is that my laptop seems to have survived the impact. And then I enjoyed a bit of retail therapy at Heathrow, hence the new suitcase and stuff.'

  'I hadn't noticed,' Bronson admitted.

  'I'm not surprised,' Angela said. 'You're only a man, after all.'

  Bronson grinned at her. 'I'll ignore that. I'm really glad you're here, you know.'

  'Now, before we start,' Angela said, her face suddenly serious, 'we need to establish the ground rules. You and me, I mean. You're out here because you're trying to find out what happened to the O'Connors, and I'm here because I was frightened about what had happened in London.'

  'So what are you saying?'

  'We've been getting along better these last few months, but I'm still not ready for the next step. I really don't want to get hurt all over again. So separate rooms – OK?'

  Bronson nodded, although Angela could almost taste his disappointment.

  'Whatever you want,' he muttered. 'I did book you a separate room at the hotel.'

  Angela leant forward and reached for his hand. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I want it to be right for us both.'

  Bronson nodded, but still looked concerned. 'One thing you need to understand, Angela. Morocco might not be any safer for us than London,' he said and explained what had happened at the Philips' hotel. 'I told you about that gang of thugs who chased me. I've moved to a different hotel, just in case they'd managed to find out where I was staying, but we'll have to keep a low profile.'

  Angela smiled at him. 'I expected that,' she said. 'How's David Philips?'

  'He's OK – he didn't even need stitches. He's got a nasty bruise on his forehead, and I guess he's nursing a weaponsgrade headache. Whoever attacked him used something like a cosh.'

  'And you don't think it was just a typical hotel theft?'

  'No. I checked their room afterwards, and it had obviously been thoroughly searched. The laptop was the only thing missing, and the thief ignored their passports, which were on the desk in the room, and didn't touch their money or the credit cards that David Philips had in his pocket. The theft was almost exactly the same, in fact, as the robbery at their home in Kent. In both cases, it looks as if the thieves were after their computers, nothing else.'

  'And that means?'

  'Well, neither computer had much intrinsic value, so the thieves must have been after the data on the hard disks, and that means the pictures of the tablet. Can you trust your guy at the British Museum? Because no matter what he thinks about that lump of fired clay, somebody – apparently with international connections – obviously thinks it's important enough to mount almost simultaneous burglaries in two countries, and knock David Philips out cold when he got in their way.'

  Angela didn't look entirely convinced. 'I asked Tony Baverstock to take a look at the pictures, and he's one of our most senior ancient-language specialists. You're not seriously suggesting that he's involved, are you?'

  'Who else knew about the pictures of the clay tablet? At the museum, I mean?'

  'I see what you're getting at. Nobody.'

  'So suspect number one has to be Baverstock. Which means he could even have been involved in your burglary as well. More to the point, it also means everything he told you about the tablet might be deliberate misdirection. What did he say, by the way?'

  Angela shrugged. 'He thinks the tablet was most likely used in a teaching environment, something like a basic textbook, and he was adamant that it's not valuable.'

  Bronson shook his head. 'But it must have some value, because I still think it's likely the O'Connors were killed to recover it.'

  'But Margaret O'Connor took pictures of an argument in the souk. Couldn't the killers have wanted to silence her for that reason, and stole the camera to remove the hard evidence?'

  'That might well be a part of it,' Bronson conceded. 'It would explain why the camera and memory stick weren't found in the wreckage. But unless Margaret O'Connor threw away the clay tablet before they left Rabat, somebody took that as well.'

  'And you don't think she just chucked it away?'

  'No. Kirsty told me her mother was going back to the souk the next morning to return the tablet to the man – the Moroccan – who'd dropped it, and if she couldn't find him she was going to take it back home with her as a souvenir of their holiday. She put all that in the email she sent to Kirsty the evening before she and Ralph left the hotel. But by then the Moroccan was lying dead outside the medina with a stab wound in his chest – Kirsty got a
final message from her mother the following morning, telling her she'd actually seen the dead man. Talabani's confirmed he was one of the people Margaret O'Connor photographed.'

  'Margaret didn't say what she was going to do with the tablet, though?'

  'No. Her last message was very short, just a couple of lines, probably sent while her husband was paying the hotel bill or getting the car or something.' Bronson paused and leant forward. 'Now, the tablet. What did you manage to find out about it?'

  'As I told you on the phone,' Angela replied, 'it's a lump of clay of almost no value. The writing is Aramaic, but Baverstock told me he could only translate one line. And I think he was probably being honest in that at least, because he knows I can read a little Aramaic. If he was trying to mislead me, all I'd have to do to check that would be to compare his translation with the original.'

  'And have you?' Bronson asked.

  'Yes. I looked at a couple of the lines on the photograph, and I came up with the same words.'

  'OK,' Bronson said grudgingly, 'for the moment, let's assume he is being accurate. Tell me what he said.'

  'On that single line of text, the words are clear but they don't make sense. I've got a translation of that line and another couple of words written out for you.'

  'Is there anything special about the tablet? I mean, anything that would make it worth stealing, let alone killing someone because of it?'

  'Nothing. Baverstock found a part of a word that might refer to the Essene community at Qumran, but even that's not conclusive.'

  'Qumran? That's where they found the Dead Sea Scrolls, isn't it?'

  'Yes, but that's probably irrelevant. As far as Baverstock could tell, the tablet didn't originate at Qumran, but simply mentions the place. What's interesting is that one of the few other words he translated was "cubit".'

  'And a cubit was what?' Bronson asked.

  'It was a unit of measurement equivalent to the length of a man's forearm, so it was pretty variable – there were at least a dozen different sizes, ranging from the Roman cubit of about seventeen inches up to the biggest, the Arabic Hashimi cubit of nearly twenty-six inches. But the fact that there's a mention of a cubit could mean that the tablet is written in a type of code, and it might be indicating the location of something that's been hidden. Maybe that's why it's important.'