The Skin Map be-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Overhead, a fan creaked as its woven rattan blades sifted the stifling air. Burleigh pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and clicked open the case. He would, he decided, give it another half hour and then call off the chase. If his quarry did not turn up, he would go down to the docklands and arrange shipping for the items held in storage since his last visit. With this thought in mind, he retrieved his wallet from the breast pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of the chair. He opened it and quickly counted his remaining funds and found that he still had a little more than eighty thousand Egyptian pounds.

  The main problem with the trade in ancient artefacts was that everyone had a finger in the pie-the looters, the brokers, the warehousemen, the ship owners, museum curators, the police, and, last but by no means least, the customs officials. All had to be paid off before any sale could take place. It was an expensive business.

  By dint of hard work, vigilance, innate good taste, and the uncanny ability to sniff out a trend before it developed, Burleigh had succeeded in a business that was growing more difficult by the day. Competition for the best pieces had increased season by season, with ignorant, heavy-handed freebooters moving in, driving up the prices unnecessarily and attracting greater attention from the authorities. It was to the point now where a fellow could not afford to put a foot wrong lest he find himself floating facedown in the Nile.

  No honour among thieves, Burleigh concluded ruefully. The greedy morons would ruin it for everyone.

  He finished his tea and cast a last quick glance around the hotel lobby. It was empty now. Anyone with any sense at all was resting from the heat.

  Replacing his glass on the silver tray, he stood, drew on his coat, left the lounge, and walked to the front desk across the lobby. “I will be out for the afternoon,” he informed the concierge. “I shall want a cold bath when I return.”

  “Of course, sir,” replied the man behind the marble countertop. “Will his lordship be dining in tonight?”

  “I think so, yes. Have my table ready for eight o’clock.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And make sure you have a bottle of Bollinger chilled and waiting. It was warm last time, and I won’t have that again.” Receiving the hotel’s deepest apologies and assurance of better service, he strolled to the revolving doors and pushed through. The sun hit him like a sweaty slap in the face. He stiffened under its onslaught and signalled the white-coated porter in the plumed pith helmet to summon a taxi for him. In a moment, he heard the slow tap of hooves on pavement, and a mule-drawn trap rolled up to the foot of the hotel steps. He climbed into the back of the small carriage, saying, “Take me to the riverfront. I’ll tell you the place when we get there.”

  The driver nodded and, with a flick of the reins, they jolted off through the narrow streets of Luxor, a shambling tangle of a city that was already ancient when Moses was a lad. They proceeded toward the river through progressively unsavoury neighbourhoods, dropping down the ladder of respectability rung by rung. Upon reaching the edge of the warehouse district, Lord Burleigh leaned forward and gave the taxi driver a street name. “I will tell you when to stop,” he added. A few minutes later they approached a large, dilapidated building. “This is it,” Burleigh told the driver. The carriage stopped outside the door. “Wait here and there will be a triple fare for you.” He held up three fingers to enforce the point.

  “It will be done, effendi,” replied the driver, touching the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead.

  Burleigh strode to the wide entrance door and gave a short series of rapid knocks. He stood examining the peeling plaster while he waited and at last heard the clink of a chain being unlocked and an iron bolt withdrawn. The door slid open to admit him, and he was met by a thin black Ethiope in a large red fez. “Lord Burleigh, the rich blessings of Allah be upon you,” said the man. “Marhaban.”

  “A’salaamu `alaykum,” replied Burleigh.

  “It is good to see you again, sir.”

  “As ever, Babu, the pleasure is mine.”

  The servant bowed low and stepped aside to allow him to enter. “My lord Hakim Rassoul is expecting you, sir. If you please to follow me.”

  “After you, Babu.” Burleigh fell into step behind his guide. “Business is good?”

  “Allah is ever generous, sir.”

  The interior of the warehouse was dark, the air stale and dusty and hot. The little servant led him through rows of shelves stacked high with dusty objects: stone urns and jars; caskets; statues of owls, and cats, and hawks in wood and stone; boxes, chests, crates, and hemp-wrapped bundles of all sizes. Ali Baba the shipping clerk, thought Burleigh.

  Back behind the towering stacks, at the far end of the warehouse, they came to a door set in a blank brick wall. Babu gave one small rap and opened the door. He bowed again, ushering his visitor in.

  Burleigh stepped into a room that appeared to be a cross between a Bedouin tent and an accountant’s office. Behind a great slab of polished mahogany sat a slender, hatchet-faced Egyptian in a glistening silk waistcoat over a tight-fitting jalabah that was buttoned to his chin. The air was blue with the smoke of a recently extinguished cigar. “Burleigh! Come in! Come in! Peace of Allah be upon you, my friend. It is good to see you.”

  “Asalaam’u, Abdel Hakim. You are looking prosperous as ever.”

  “Tolerable-only tolerable. But why tempt God with complaints? Babu, you good-for-nothing, bring us whiskey!”

  “Thank you, Hakim, but none for me. Too early in the day.”

  “Is it?” wondered Hakim. “Well, then.” He shouted again, “Babu, bring us wine-and figs… and some of those dates.” He stepped around from behind his desk, took Burleigh by the shoulders, and embraced him. “It has been a long time, my friend.”

  “Only six months,” replied Burleigh.

  “That long? It seems much longer.” He smiled and waved his visitor to a carved boxwood throne covered in the fleece of a spotted goat. “I trust your journey was pleasant.”

  “Pleasant enough.”

  “Sit! Tell me the news of the world.”

  “You know it better than I, Hakim. I only arrived yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes, we had your message.” The antiquities broker settled back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his spreading paunch. “So! Here you are.”

  “Here I am indeed,” Burleigh agreed blandly. “But I must say all the travel grows tedious-and buyers are more difficult to find. I’m thinking of giving it up and finding another line of work.”

  “Nonsense!” cried the broker, outraged. “Never say it, my friend. We have the most successful export business this side of China. We are partners, you and I. If you quit, Hakim and Sons will die. Like grapes left on the vine, we will shrivel in the hot sun and die.”

  “You have many other partners, Hakim. I expect you’ll survive.”

  “True,” admitted the broker. “But none of my partners are as successful as you.”

  “None who pay you as much, you mean.”

  Babu entered just then with a teak tray bearing a bottle of wine, two crystal goblets, and dishes with figs in syrup and dried dates stuffed with almonds. He placed the tray on the desk, poured wine into the cups, and then backed from the room.

  “Why so quarrelsome, my friend?” wondered Hakim. Seizing a cup in each fist he held them up to the light and then offered one to his guest. “Come, let us drink-to good trade always!”

  “To good trade,” echoed Burleigh, raising his goblet.

  They moved on to discuss arrangements for a number of items the earl had left in storage during his last visit; when that concluded, Hakim stood up and declared himself ravenous. “I could eat a camel,” he proclaimed. “Come, Burleigh, my dear friend. Dine with me. I will take you to a place I know on the river where they prepare a meal of such exquisite flavours the angels look down in envy.”

  “I’m certain it is very good,” replied Burleigh, pulling his watch from his pocket. “But I had hoped
to see some new things before I go.”

  “Of course! Of course! And such things-” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Mmwa! Wonderful things! The best yet. All for you.” Hakim reached behind his desk and brought out a small white satin turban and an ebony walking stick. “But a man must eat, and the restaurant is not far. The walk will sharpen your appetite.” He bounded across the office in long-legged strides and threw open the door. “Babu, you son-of-a-dog! We are going out. Admit no one while I am away.”

  He locked the door, then turned and walked to a potted palm in a huge brass pot. On the wall behind the palm hung an ornate prayer rug; Hakim lifted the corner of the rug to reveal a hidden door, which he unlocked and beckoned his guest through. “This way. It is much closer.”

  Abdel Hakim Rassoul led his visitor through a dark passage that opened out into a dim walkway-merely a space between two warehouses-at the end of which lay a sunny lane wide enough for horse- and ox-drawn wagons to come and go. The Egyptian antiquities broker turned and started off along the grassy verge. The smell of the river wafted along a breeze a touch cooler than the sun-drenched air of the city, letting them know that the Nile was close by. One turning and then another brought them to the riverbank and a large old house built on stilts to raise it above the perennial floods. At the top of the stairs they were greeted by a waiter in a coffee-coloured kaftan.

  “Asalaam’u,” intoned the waiter. “Blessings be upon you.”

  “Salaam,” replied Hakim Rassoul. “My table, if you please.”

  The waiter led them through the restaurant and out onto a shaded terrace overlooking the river. Two or three other tables were already occupied. Woven grass mats propelled by an old man on a stool in a corner of the terrace fanned the air and made a light rustling sound. “Ahh,” sighed Hakim, folding himself into his chair, “it is a refuge for the weary, careworn soul.”

  “You ought to be a poet,” observed Burleigh. “Your only care is how to spend your secret fortune.”

  “Oh, my friend”-Hakim pouted-“have you no heart? Look! Behold that wonderful river.” He waved a long-fingered hand at the grey-green slow-flowing water. A graceful felucca with tawny sails was passing just then, joining the busy river traffic of boats and barges on their way downstream. Feathery fronds of papyrus swayed in the breeze off the water, tossing their golden heads in chorus. “Beautiful, is it not?”

  “Indeed,” agreed Burleigh. “Very.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now then, what do you have for me? What will I see when we return to your den?”

  The waiter poured water from a silver ewer into small glass beakers and into a silver bowl. “We will eat whatever Hammet has prepared today,” declared Hakim. “Bring it at once-and a dish of his spiced olives while we wait.”

  That done, he turned to his guest. “What will you see? You know that things have been very slow lately. The market has become stubborn. However, I have a very nice sphinx-exquisite detail, fully intact, red granite with eyes of sapphire and gold headdress, big as a house cat. I could have sold it seven times over by now, but I saved it for you, my friend. I wanted you to have first choice.”

  “It sounds expensive. What else?”

  “Alas, as I say, it has been a slow season. Still, there has been some heavy excavation in one of the valleys west of Luxor this past winter. Some very good pieces are becoming available just now.”

  “Who is excavating?”

  “A man named Carter. He is funded by a wealthy backer-a lord somebody-I forget his name…” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Cavanaugh, perhaps.”

  “Carnarvon,” corrected Burleigh.

  “You know him?”

  “Not yet. But I hope to before the week is out.”

  The waiter returned with a bowl of plump purple olives, pitted and stuffed with a white pasty substance. “Taste these and know what a delight an olive can be,” said Hakim, offering the dish.

  Burleigh took one and popped it into his mouth. “Very good.” He chewed a moment. “Are they finding anything? Anything worthwhile?”

  “They are digging up the entire desert. It is all very hush-hush.

  …” He smiled, reaching for a fistful of olives. “But, naturally,” he continued, tossing stuffed olives into his mouth, “I have my sources.”

  “Naturally.”

  Hakim swallowed, then leaned forward, dropping his voice, although there were no other diners within earshot. “Rumour has it that they are on the very brink of a major discovery-a royal tomb, no less.”

  “Is that so?” wondered Burleigh thoughtfully.

  Hakim nodded. “Any day now-so my sources inform me.”

  “It seems I have come at the right time.”

  “Most fortuitous,” agreed the broker. “Trade will flow again soon, Insha’allah!”

  Three kaftanned waiters trooped to the table bearing armloads of plates and platters. Without a word, they began laying down the food: honey-glazed quails stuffed with plums and pine nuts on a bed of delicate jasmine-scented rice flavoured with coriander. This was accompanied by dishes of pickled slices of Nile perch and tiger fish with onions and whole peppercorns, pale green slices of melon, and figs in wine.

  Hakim Rassoul smacked his lips and, tucking his white linen napkin into the neck of his robe, fell to with gusto, never once resorting to the use of knife and fork. His pleasure in the meal outstripped enjoyment and proceeded well on the way to rapture. Burleigh, whose appetite had been annihilated by the heat, watched in amazement, his own efforts feeble by comparison.

  It was some time before Hakim could speak again. “Heaven should have such food,” he announced, pushing his plate away at last. “You have been in the presence of greatness, my friend.”

  “I do not doubt it,” agreed Burleigh mildly.

  Coffee was brought, and they finished their meal in amiable conversation about the international trade in antiquities, then returned to the warehouse to resume their business. It was late afternoon when Burleigh took his leave; the taxi was still waiting-he had to wake the driver-and Burleigh settled into the back, deep in thought. Upon reaching the hotel, he roused himself, paid the driver a substantial tip, and went in. Three paces inside the lobby, he spotted his quarry: a tall, slender, impeccably dressed man standing at the front desk, drumming his fingers on the marble counter.

  Burleigh paused, straightened his jacket, then strode forward, coming up behind the man, whose back was turned to him. He gave a little cough to announce himself and said in a firm, resonant voice, “Excuse me, but is it Lord Carnarvon?”

  The man turned, took him in at a glance, and offered a polite smile. “Yes? Whom do I address?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, offering his hand. “I am Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland. I was informed you were staying here. We have mutual friends, I think. May I offer you a drink?”

  CHAPTER 21

  In Which Social Climbing Is Indulged

  I’m sorry, Etzel,” Wilhelmina said, clasping the big man’s hands in both her own. She gave them a squeeze for emphasis. “I should have talked to you first. I know that. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think, and before I knew it, we had agreed.” She watched the wide, round face for any flicker of forgiveness; but the pale blue eyes remained downcast, the mouth pressed firmly together.

  “We are partners,” he said, without raising his head.

  “I know,” Mina assured him. “I know-and that’s why I feel so terrible about this. I just… please understand, I just saw the opportunity and took it. It was wrong of me to do that, and I am sorry. I really am.”

  She felt herself caving in under her friend and partner’s unhappiness. Her lower lip quivered, and her voice became shaky. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please, say something, Etzel. Tell me you forgive me. I’ll never do it again.”

  Englebert drew a deep breath and heaved his round shoulders. “Ah, mein Shatz,” he sighed. “How can I say no? We are partners, you and I.�
� He looked at her sadly. “Of course, I forgive you.” He raised a hand and rubbed away her tears with his thumb. “Do not cry. I am not angry with you.”

  “Then you do forgive me?” she sniffed.

  “I have already said that I do,” he replied. “How could I stay angry with you? If not for you, Mina, I would be back in Rosenheim trying to please my father and brother. I would not have a Kaffeehaus at all. Of course, I forgive you.”

  She took his hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Etzel. It will all work out fine. I promise.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded, thinking to himself. In a moment, he said, “I have no doubt it is for the best. To be in business with Master Arnostovi-who could have imagined such a thing?”

  “He is giving us a refund on the rent of this place, and we get first pick of his best properties as soon as any become available. Oh, Etzel, we’ll have the finest coffee shop and bakery in all of Prague-in all of Europe!”

  At this, his good-natured face broke into a cherubic smile. “We already have this, I think.”

  “But the new shop will be better, still. And it will have a proper bakery for you-with big ovens and a good kitchen. We’ll even get some kitchen staff to help us. It will be wonderful. You’ll see.”

  He laughed, then, and as low as Wilhelmina’s heart had been at hurting her friend, her spirits revived and took wing on that happy sound. “You are a good man, Etzel,” she told him, and planted a big wet kiss on his round cheek.

  His smile swelled to bursting, and his face turned red.

  A few days later, Arnostovi made good on his promise. “Fraulein Wilhelmina, come,” he said, striding into the coffeehouse with his little black book tucked under his arm. “I have something to show you.”

  “Would you like your Kaffee first, Herr Arnostovi?”

  “Not now. We must hurry. Come along.”

  He turned and stepped back out the door and into the street, beckoning her to follow.

  Mina turned and called to Englebert, who was just then taking a tray of pastries from the oven. “Yes, go,” he replied. “I will watch things here. Go. I trust you.”