The Seventh Scroll (Novels of Ancient Egypt)
Page 36
“Your erstwhile admirer, General Obeid. No wonder he could not meet us yesterday. He was much too busy.”
“Look, Nicky,” Royan gasped. She was no longer watching the pair at the foot of the steps, who were still clasping hands as they chatted with animation. Her whole attention was focused on the top of the steps of the Falcon jet, where another, younger, man had appeared. He was bare-headed, and Nicholas had the impression of sallow skin and dense, dark, wavy hair.
“Never seen him in my life before. Who is he?” Nicholas asked her.
“Nahoot Guddabi. Duraid’s assistant from the museum. The man who now has his job.”
As Nahoot started down the steps of the Falcon their own aircraft trundled on down the tarmac, then swung out on to the main taxi-way and blocked any further view of the gathering beside the Pegasus jet. Both of them fell back in their seats and stared at each other for a long moment. Nicholas recovered his voice first.
“A witches’ sabbath. A convocation of the ugly ones. We were lucky to witness it. There are no more secrets now. We know very clearly who the opposition is.”
“Von Schiller is the puppet-master,” she agreed, breathless with anger and horror. “But Nahoot Guddabi is his hunting dog. Nahoot must be the one who hired the killers in Cairo and turned them loose on us. Oh God, Nicky, you should have heard him at the funeral, going on about how much he admired and respected Duraid. The filthy, murderous hypocrite!”
They were both silent until the aircraft had taken off and climbed to cruise altitude, then Royan said quietly, “Of course, you were right about Obeid. He is deep in von Schiller’s pocket also.”
“He may simply have been acting as the representative of the Ethiopian government, paying respect to a major foreign concession-holder, somebody who they hope is going to discover fabulous copper deposits in their poverty-stricken country and make them all rich.”
She shook her head firmly. “If it was as simple as that, it would be one of the cabinet ministers meeting him, not the chief of police. No, Obeid has the stink of treachery on him, just the same as Nahoot.”
Seeing her husband’s killers in the flesh had reopened the half-healed wounds of Royan’s grief and mourning. These bitter emotions were a flame that was burning her up, like the bushfire in the trunk of a hollow forest tree, consuming her from within. Nicholas knew that he could not quench that flame, that he could only hope to distract her for a while. He talked to her quietly, turning her dark thoughts away from death and vengeance to the challenge of Taita’s game and the riddle of the lost tomb.
By the time that they had changed planes at Nairobi and landed at Heathrow the following morning, the two of them had sketched out a plan of action for their return to the Nile gorge and the exploration of Taita’s pool in the chasm. But although now Royan appeared on the surface to be her usual calm and cheerful self once again, Nicholas knew that the pain of her loss was still there beneath the surface.
* * *
They landed at Heathrow so early that they walked through the immigration gates without running into a queue, and since they had no bags in the hold they did not have to play the customary game of roulette at the luggage carousel—will they arrive or won’t they?
Carrying the dik-dik skin in the nylon bag under his arm, and with Royan limping on her cane on his other arm, Nicholas sauntered through the green channel of HM Customs, as innocent as a cherub from the roof of the Sistine Chapel.
“You are so brazen,” she whispered to him once they were through and clear. “If you can lie so convincingly to Customs, how can I ever trust you again?”
Their luck held. There was no queue at the taxi rank, and in a little over an hour after touch-down the taxi deposited them on the pavement outside Nicholas’s town house in Knightsbridge. It was only eight-thirty on a Monday morning.
While Royan showered, Nicholas went down to the corner shop under an umbrella to fetch some groceries. Then they shared the task of cooking breakfast, Royan taking care of the toast while Nicholas whipped up his speciality, a herb omelette.
“Surely you’re going to need expert help when we go back to the Abbay gorge?” Royan observed, as she let the butter melt into the hot toast.
“I already have the right man in mind. I have worked with him before,” he told her. “Ex-Royal Engineers. Expert in diving and underwater construction. Retired and living in a little cottage in Devon. I suspect he is a little short of the ready, and bored out of his considerable mind. I expect him to jump at any opportunity to alleviate either condition.”
As soon as they had finished breakfast, Nicholas told her, “I will do the dishes. You take the films of the stele to be developed. There is a one-hour service at the branch of Boots opposite Harrods.”
“That’s what I call a fair distribution of labour,” she remarked with a long-suffering air. “You have a dish-washer, and it’s raining again outside.”
“All right,” he laughed. “To sweeten the pill, I’ll lend you my raincoat. While you are waiting for the films to be developed you can go shopping to replace the togs you lost in the rock-fall. I have some crucial phone calls to make.”
As soon as she had left, Nicholas settled at his desk with a notepad at one hand and the telephone at the other. His first call was to Quenton Park, where Mrs. Street tried not to show how delighted she was to have him home.
“Your desk is about two feet deep with mail awaiting your return. It’s mostly bills.”
“Cheerful, aren’t we?”
“The lawyers have been pestering me, and Mr. Markham from Lloyd’s has been ringing every day.”
“Don’t tell any of them that I am back, there’s a good girl.” Nicholas knew exactly what they wanted from him—the same thing that persistent callers always wanted: money. In this case it was not simply five hundred guineas for an overdue tailor’s bill, but two and a half million pounds. “It’s probably better if I stay in York, rather than at Quenton,” he told Mrs. Street. “They won’t be able to find me at the flat.”
He pushed his debts to the back of his mind, and concentrated on the task at hand. “Have you got your pencil and notepad ready? All right, here’s what I want you to do.”
It took him ten minutes to finish his dictation, and then Mrs. Street read it back to him. “Okay. Get on with it, will you. We’ll be back this evening. Dr. Al Simma will be staying indefinitely. Ask the housekeeper to prepare the second bedroom for her at the flat.”
Next he rang the number in Devon, and while the phone rang he imagined the converted coastguard’s cottage on top of the cliffs overlooking a grey, storm-whipped winter sea. Daniel Webb was probably in his workshop in the back garden, either tinkering with his 1935 Jaguar, the great love of his life, or tying salmon flies. Fishing was his other passion, the one that had originally brought them together.
“Hello?” Daniel’s voice was guarded and suspicious. Nicholas could imagine him, his bald head freckled like a plover’s egg, gripping the telephone with a hairy, work-scarred fist.
“Sapper, I have a job for you. Are you a starter?”
“Where are we headed, Major?” Although it had been three years, he recognized Nicholas’s voice instantly.
“Sunny climes and dancing girls. Same pay as the last time.”
“I’m a starter. Where do we meet?”
“At the flat. You remember it from last time. Tomorrow. Bring your slide rule.” Nicholas knew that Danny put no store by these new-fangled pocket computers.
“The Jag is still in good nick. I’ll leave early and be there for lunch tomorrow.”
Nicholas hung up, and then made two more calls: one to his Jersey bank, and the other to the Cayman Islands. The funds in both his emergency accounts were running low. His budget for the expedition that he had worked out with Royan on the flight was two hundred and thirty thousand. Like all budgets, he knew that it was optimistic.
“Always add fifty per cent,” he warned himself. “Which means that the cupboard will be ba
re by the time we are finished. Let’s hope and pray that you are not pulling our legs, Taita.”
He gave the passwords to the respective bank accountants and instructed them to make transfers into his holding accounts, ready to draw on immediately.
There were two more calls he had to make before they left for York. The fate of all their plans hung on them, and the contacts that he had for both of them were at the best tenuous, and at the worst chimerical.
The first number was engaged. He rang it five times more, and on each occasion got the irritating high-pitched busy tone in his ear. He tried one last time and was answered by a reassuring west country accent.
“Good afternoon. British Embassy. How may I help you?” Nicholas glanced at his wrist-watch. There was a three-hour time difference. Of course, it would be afternoon in Addis.
“This is Sir Nicholas Quenton-Harper calling from the UK. Is Mr. Geoffrey Tennant, your military attaché, available, please?”
Geoffrey came on the line almost immediately. “My dear boy. So you made it all the way home. Lucky you.”
“Just thought I would set your mind at rest. Knew you would be losing sleep.”
“How is the charming Dr. Al Simma?”
“She sends her love.”
“I wish I could believe you.” Geoffrey sighed dramatically.
“Big favour, Geoff. Do you know a Colonel Maryam Kidane at the Ministry of Defence?”
“First-rate chap,” Geoffrey affirmed immediately. “Know him well. Played tennis with him last Saturday, actually. Demon back-hand.”
“Please ask him to contact me urgently.” He gave Geoffrey the telephone number of the flat in York. “Tell him it’s in connection with a rare breed of Ethiopian swallow for the museum collection.”
“Up to your shenanigans again, Nicky. Not enough that you get slung out of Ethiopia on your ear. Now you are trading in rare birds. Probably CITES Schedule One. Endangered species.”
“Will you do it for me, Geoff?”
“Of course. Serve to Lead, old boy. Always the sucker.”
“I owe you one.”
“More than one. Half a dozen, more like it.”
He had less success with his next call. International Enquiries gave him a number in Malta. On his first attempt he received an encouraging ringing tone.
“Pick it up, Jannie,” he pleaded in a whisper, but on the sixth ring an answering machine cut in.
“You have reached the head office of Africair Services. There is nobody available to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name and number and a short message after the tone. We will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.” Jannie Badenhorst’s rich South African accent was unmistakable.
“Jannie. This is Nicholas Quenton-Harper. Is that broken-down old Herc of yours still airworthy? This job should be a lark. What’s more, the money is good. Call me at the flat in the UK. No hurry. Yesterday, or the day before, will do just fine.”
Royan rang the doorbell a minute after he finished the last call, and he ran down the stairs.
“Your timing is impeccable,” he told her as she came in with the end of her nose pink with cold, shaking the raindrops off the coat he had lent her. “Did you get the films developed?”
She pulled the yellow packet out of the coat pocket and brandished it triumphantly.
“You are a master photographer,” she told him. “They have turned out perfectly. I can read every character on the stele with the naked eye. We are back in Taita’s game again.”
They spread the glossy photographs across his desktop and gloated over them.
“You have had duplicates made? A set for each of us. Excellent,” Nicholas approved. “The negatives will go into the safe deposit box at my bank. We won’t take a chance on losing them the second time around.”
Using his large magnifying glass, Royan studied each of the prints in turn, and she picked out the clearest shot of each of the four sides of the stele.
“These will be our working copies. I don’t think we are really going to miss the rubbings that we lifted from the stone. These should suffice.” She read aloud a snippet from one of the blocks of hieroglyphics. “‘The cobra uncoils and lifts his jewelled hood. The stars of morning shine within his eyes. Three times his black and slippery tongue kisses the air.’” She was flushed with excitement. “I wonder what Taita is telling us with that verse. Oh, Nicky, it’s so exciting to be unravelling the mysteries again!”
“Leave it alone now,” he ordered sternly. “I know you. Once you start, we’ll be here all night. Let’s get the Range Rover packed up. It’s a long, hard haul up to York, and there is an AA warning of black ice on the motorway. A bit of a change from the weather in the Abbay gorge.”
She straightened up and shuffled the prints into a neat pile. “You are right. Sometimes I do tend to get carried away.” She stood up. “Before we go, may I make a phone call home?”
“By home, I take it that you mean Cairo?”
“Sorry. Yes, to Cairo. Duraid’s family—”
“Please! No need to explain. There is the phone. Help yourself. I’ll be waiting downstairs in the kitchen when you are finished. We both need a cup of tea before we get going.”
She came down into the kitchen half an hour later looking guilty, and told him directly, “I am afraid that I am going to be a nuisance again. I have a confession to make.”
“Spit it out,” he invited.
“I have to go back home—to Cairo,” she said, and he looked at her startled. “Just for a few days,” she qualified hurriedly. “I was speaking to Duraid’s brother. There are some of Duraid’s affairs that I have to see to.”
“I don’t like you going back there on your own,” he shook his head, “after your last experiences.”
“If our theory is correct, and Nahoot Guddabi was the danger, then he is in Ethiopia now. I should be quite safe.”
“Still, I don’t like it. You are the key to Taita’s game.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” she said with mock outrage. “Is that the only reason you don’t want me bumped off?”
“If forced into a corner, I may admit that I have also grown rather partial to having you around.”
“I’ll be back before you know I’ve even gone. Besides which, you will have plenty to keep you busy while I am away.”
“I don’t suppose that I can stop you,” he grumbled. “When do you plan to leave?”
“There’s a flight at eight this evening.”
“A bit sudden. I mean, we have only just arrived.” He made one last feeble protest, then capitulated. “I will run you out to the airport.”
“No, Nicky. Heathrow is out of your way. I can catch the train.”
“I insist.”
On a Monday evening the traffic was reasonably light and, once they had cleared the main built-up area, they made good time. The journey was further lightened by their animated discussion as he related the contents of the phone calls he had made in her absence.
“Through Maryam Kidane, I hope to be in contact with Mek Nimmur again pretty soon. Mek is the kingpin of the whole plan. Without him we can’t even make the first move on Taita’s bao board.”
He dropped her off at the departures entrance at Heathrow. “Phone me tomorrow morning from Cairo to let me know you are all right, and when you are coming back. I’ll be at the flat.”
“Reversed charges,” she warned him as she offered him her cheek to kiss. Then she slid across the seat and slammed the door behind her.
He watched her waiflike figure in the rear-view mirror as he pulled away, and he was filled with melancholy and a sense of loss. Then quite suddenly he was aware of a new sensation of disquiet. His early-warning bells were jangling. Something unpleasant was afoot. Something nasty was about to happen when she reached Egypt. Another dangerous beast had escaped from its cage and was prowling the darkness waiting its opportunity to pounce, but it was still too early for him to discern its colour or shape.
“But I don’t like it one little bit,” he reaffirmed.
* * *
His private secretary, and the other men who worked for him, knew exactly what he expected of them. Everything was as he required it. Gotthold von Schiller looked around the interior of the Quonset hut with approval. Helm had done well in the time that he had been given to prepare the base for his boss’s arrival.
His own private quarters occupied half the long portable building. They were spartan, but sterilely clean and neat. His clothes hung in the cupboard and his cosmetics and medicines were set out in the bathroom cabinet. His private kitchen was fully equipped and stocked with provisions. His own Chinese chef had flown out in the Falcon with him, bringing everything with him that he needed to provide the meals that his master demanded.
Von Schiller was a vegetarian, a non-smoker and a teetotaller. Twenty years ago he had been a famous trencherman who loved the hearty food of the Black Forest, the wines of the Rhine valley and the rich dark tobaccos of Cuba. In those days he had been obese, with rolls of chin sagging over his collar. Now, despite his age, he was as lean and fit and vital as a racing greyhound.
In the autumn of his life, the pleasures were of the mind and the emotions, more than of the physical senses. He placed a higher value on inanimate objects than on living creatures, either human or animal. A piece of stone carved by masons who had been dead for thousands of years could excite him more than the soft warm body of the most lovely young woman. He loved order and control. Power over men and events sustained him more than did the taste of food. Power and the possession of beautiful and unique objects were his passions, now that his body was running down and his animal appetites were losing their zest.