by Overton, Max
"And the university will be dealing with them appropriately," Dean Voisey assured him.
"Returning to the chambers and the inscription," Cummins said. "Do you have any evidence for its existence?"
Dani stared. "I'm not sure I understand. If it doesn't exist, then what's all this about? Minister Bashir can hardly accuse me of damaging something that doesn't exist."
Bielish sighed. "He says it was a tomb packed with artefacts that you tried to steal. You say it was a series of chambers with the walls covered in hieroglyphs telling the story of a young girl. A photograph of the inscription would immediately tell which claim was true. Funerary inscriptions can hardly be mistaken for anything else."
"Everything was confiscated in Syria--notebooks, photos, translations, tapes of me reading out the account--everything."
"So all we have is your unsubstantiated claim?"
"Yes."
Bielish leaned closer to Cummins and McClelland. "Do we need to hear more?"
"Does anyone else have any more questions for Dr Hanser?" McClelland asked.
"I have a question," Dani said. "If I am allowed one."
"Of course."
"You call my claim unsubstantiated because I have no photographic proof, but isn't Minister Bashir's claim equally unsubstantiated? Where is his proof that these chambers were anything more than I have said? He can't produce any because any photos he has..."
Dani's voice tailed off as the Vice-Chancellor opened a folder in front of him and removed a glossy photograph. He slid it across the table, but said nothing, watching her reaction keenly.
"What's this?" Dani examined the photograph. It was a close-up of serried ranks of hieroglyphs painted on a rock wall.
"Can you read the inscription, Dr Hanser?" Bielish watched her with a predatory gaze.
Dani studied the photograph before hesitantly translating the writing. "It's incomplete, but it says 'who give water to the One who presides over the Silent Place. The water of this pool is destined...'--that's all."
"Do you recognise the passage, Dr Hanser?" Bielish asked. "After all, you say you have made an extensive private study of Egypt and Egyptian writing."
"It's a passage from the Book of Gates."
"And where might one find such a passage, Dr Hanser?"
"On the walls of a tomb or a temple."
McClelland reached out to take the photo from Dani but she hung onto it. "Minister Bashir took that photo in the chambers you claim were not a tomb." He cleared his throat and glanced at the stony faces of his fellow academics. "Your claim to expertise in matters Egyptian has led you astray, or you are trying to deliberately mislead us, Dr Hanser. Either way, the university does not look kindly on your actions which have brought Midland University into disrepute and we have no other course open to us but to terminate your..."
"That photo wasn't taken in those chambers."
"Dr Hanser, we..."
"Look at the rock wall in the photo. First of all, it's raw rock, undressed, unpainted. The chambers we found were fully plastered and painted..."
"We only have your word for that."
"Then look at the grain of the rock. The Orontes Valley cuts through coarse sandstone in which the grains are clearly visible--sand grains. This wall is made of something much finer. I think it's limestone...maybe mudstone. If so, this tomb inscription came from somewhere else. Bashir is the one misleading you, not me."
Bielish took the photo and studied it. "It's probably just a lack of definition that prevents us seeing sand grains."
"Show it to a professional geologist then, and get him to compare it with a geological map of the area. I'll accept his findings. If it's sandstone then you can...you can do what you like, but if its limestone or mudstone, then you accept Bashir's lying."
The academics leaned together, whispering as they deliberated whether to condemn Dani immediately, or consult a geologist. Bielish seemed the most vociferous in condemnation, raising her voice angrily and glaring at Dani, but McClelland and Voisey spoke placatingly.
"We will consult a geologist," McClelland said. "Is there anything else you wish to say, Dr Hanser?"
Dani thought for a moment, inclined to leave well enough alone, but then decided her career was on the line and this might be her only opportunity to rescue it. "Just that Minister Bashir has made allegations that impugn my professional standing at this university. I totally reject his allegations and ask you to examine the paltry evidence he has produced and condemn his unsubstantiated claims."
"Except you have admitted you acted in a less than professional manner when you hid the existence of the chambers from the proper authorities," Bielish said. "Your professional standing at this university is in tatters, Dr Hanser."
"I think we can reasonably leave the matter here for now," McClelland said. "Dr Hanser, thank you for attending this meeting and giving your side of events. We will consider all the evidence carefully and notify you of our findings in due course."
Dani stood and thanked the panel for hearing her out, before walking with head high and back straight, the length of the long room. Outside, she took a shuddering breath and stood looking out of the window at the university campus and the city beyond.
"Are you alright, Dr Hanser?" the secretary asked. "Can I get you a glass of water?"
Dani shook her head, smiling wanly. "No...thank you. I'll be fine. I just need some fresh air."
She took the lift down to the ground floor and made her way to the student cafeteria. As the day was cool but sunny, she took her latte to an outdoor table and sat staring at the potted plants while sipping her coffee. A few students recognised her and smiled in greeting, but she did not see them, her mind a thousand miles away in Syria, where her golden scarab sat locked up with all her notes and tapes.
"I've got to get it back," she murmured.
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* * *
Chapter Three
Under-Minister Ahmed Bashir flew into Cairo a month after he engineered the expulsion of the British expedition from Syria. He felt enormously pleased with himself, and looked forward to his stay in Egypt with pleasure and anticipation. His secretary and aide, Nazim Manouk, had stayed behind in Damascus, compiling the notes on the Orontes Inscription into some semblance of order, and would be joining him in Cairo in a few days. In the meantime, Bashir had a few things he needed to do, a few people he had to meet, and the fewer who knew about these things and people, the better. Trust was a commodity in short supply in the Arab world and, outside of his immediate family--an aged father and a young brother in debt to him--Bashir trusted nobody.
Nobody met him at the airport, and although Syria and Egypt were both part of the United Arab Republic, his diplomatic passport eased him through arrivals well before any of the other passengers from the Damascus flight. Outside, in the heat and stink of a Cairo noon, he threw his single case into the back of a taxi and had the driver take him to one of the large hotels in the city centre. Bashir did not care which one, letting the taxi driver choose. At the hotel, he paid the fare and let a porter carry his case into the lobby, while he watched the driver accept another fare and pull out into the traffic. Inside the lobby, Bashir reclaimed his case, ignored the puzzled protests of the clerks on the desk and marched outside again. Hailing another taxi, he gave an address on the outskirts of the city, on the Giza Plateau.
The journey took close on an hour, and Bashir sat in the back of the taxi, mopping at the sweat that beaded his brow. The pyramids loomed large and drifted away to the north as the road led past them and along the banks of the Nile. Their route led them through drifts of desert, farmland, and date orchards. Presently, they happened upon a walled estate and then iron gates with guards in military uniform on watch. Bashir identified himself to the sergeant of the guard and the gates creaked open. The taxi rolled up to the front of the huge stone house and a second squad of guards. Bashir paid off the driver and only then did he turn to the young lieutenant in charge.
"Certainly, Minister. You are expected. Please follow me." The lieutenant gave orders for Bashir's case to be taken inside and led the Minister into the house. The temperature dropped as they crossed the threshold, and the tapestry-hung walls muffled the sharp clatter of their footsteps on the marble floor. The house appeared deserted and deeply shadowed, but the lieutenant guided Bashir through to a central courtyard where trees cast leafy shade, flowers offered up rich perfume, and splashing fountains moistened and cooled the dry air. They walked down a gravel path to the central fountain where a tall man in military uniform threw morsels of food to golden koi carp.
"Colonel Sarraj," the lieutenant said quietly. "Minister Bashir has arrived."
The tall man turned, his deep-set eyes scanning the sweating Syrian Minister in front of him. "Minister Bashir. My house is yours."
Bashir plucked at the collar of his sweat-stained shirt. "Is it always this hot?"
Sarraj smiled and addressed the lieutenant. "Azib, take the Minister's case to the guest room and bring us iced drinks. We will sit out here." The young officer took Bashir's single case and disappeared into the house with it.
Sarraj indicated the marble seat surrounding the koi pond. "You had a pleasant journey, Ahmed?"
Bashir shrugged. "Good enough, I suppose. What arrangements have you made?"
"Arrangements?"
"For finding the tomb."
"Ah. Nothing as yet." Sarraj held up a hand as Bashir opened his mouth to protest. "Wait. Some refreshment first."
Lieutenant Azib emerged from the shadows bearing a silver tray upon which was a glass jug beaded with moisture and two crystal glasses. Ice cubes chinked gently against the glass as he walked. He placed the tray on the marble rim of the pond and withdrew, leaving the two men alone.
Sarraj poured them each a chilled drink and passed one to his guest. "From my own citrons." He sipped from his own crystal glass and watched as Bashir greedily downed the drink.
"That's good," Bashir said. "Thank you, Michel, but what did you mean when you said you'd done nothing? We don't have any time to waste."
"Your letter lacked details, Ahmed. You said you had discovered the whereabouts of an undiscovered tomb, but did not say where. It is a little hard to judge what preparations need to be made when I don't know anything about it. Perhaps you can rectify that lack of detail now."
Bashir looked around the courtyard and scanned the blank windows and shadowed porticoes of the surrounding house. "How secure are we?"
"Nobody can overhear us. I have given instructions that we're not to be disturbed."
"You're sure?"
"My staff are all military and under my direct command. They would not dare disobey me."
Bashir nodded, but still hesitated, fiddling with his crystal glass. "Midland University in England sent a team to carry out an archaeological dig in the Orontes Valley in Syria, last year and this year. I won't bore you with what they hoped to find, but they stumbled upon something far more interesting--a series of chambers carved into the sandstone. The walls of the chambers were covered in hieroglyphs and they purported to be the story of an ancient Egyptian princess. The story told of a treasury and a tomb, apparently as yet undiscovered, somewhere in Egypt."
"Egypt is a large place," Sarraj observed.
"Indeed."
"A rich tomb?"
"Fabulously."
"You must have information on the whereabouts of this tomb."
"Yes."
"Then where is the problem? You go there, dig it up and abscond with the wealth. Why do you need me?"
"If this was Syria, I would do just that. As a Minister, I have considerable power in my own country, but here in Egypt, although our countries are joined politically, I am a visiting politician. As such, I am under scrutiny and need the assistance of a powerful local figure."
"Is that why you clumsily attempted to evade notice by travelling to the Cairo Hotel before coming here?"
Bashir shrugged again. "I thought it best not to be too open."
"It would have been better if you had taken a room there and then called me. I would have had you moved to a secure location without anyone noticing. Do you have reason to believe you're being followed?"
"I cannot be sure."
"Who else knows about this tomb? This treasure?"
"The members of the British expedition. My secretary."
"Members of your ministry? Your assistants?"
"No. I was careful."
"A pity about the British. I daresay England still feels it has a right to interfere in our country. Do you envisage they will be a problem?"
"I think I have removed any danger from that quarter. I confiscated every bit of evidence they had on the existence and location of the tomb, and then made an official complaint about their conduct to the university. I have every reason to believe the leader of the expedition, Dr Danielle Hanser, will lack any credibility."
"Won't an official complaint draw attention to the tomb?"
Bashir chuckled. "I said they had already found the tomb in Syria and plundered it. Nobody will be looking for one in Egypt."
Sarraj glanced at his watch. "I shall look forward to hearing more, but I regret to say I must leave you for a few hours. I'd like to resume our discussion after dinner tonight." The Colonel arose and left Bashir sitting by the fish pond.
Bashir found himself at a loose end for the rest of the afternoon. He searched out his room and took advantage of the ensuite bathroom, showering and then changing into casual attire before exploring the house and grounds. The staff was unobtrusive, but whenever he found himself encroaching on the suite of rooms where his host lived, a neatly attired soldier would politely usher him away. He perused the shelves in the small but evidently well-used library but found nothing that interested him--the books were all historical treatises on the military and political life of Egypt.
The garden was pleasant, but small, and Bashir got the impression that Michel Sarraj was not a man that had much time for relaxation. The inner courtyard with its koi pond, and the library, were the only areas that bore the signs of the Colonel's presence and attention. Bashir returned to the courtyard with a cup of coffee and contemplated his relationship with this soldier.
Colonel Michel Sarraj was something of an unknown quantity, both in Egypt and in Syria. Bashir had known him for a little over twenty years, since a visit to Damascus by the recently graduated second lieutenant just prior to the outbreak of hostilities in the Second World War. In those heady days when right-wing governments were in the ascendancy, they had met at a political rally of the Pan-Arab Movement and become firm friends. Bashir had opted for political power within Syria and Sarraj for military within Egypt, though neither had succeeded to the degree they had hoped for, talked about, and striven to become.
Ten years before, Bashir had given up the dream of rising within the government of Syria and had sold out his ideals for a sinecure within the Ministry of National History. He settled for a slow but sure rise within the Ministry, and the opportunity to feather his nest with baksheesh from a hundred grateful black market entrepreneurs. The Minister knew nothing of Bashir's little schemes, though undoubtedly he had his suspicions, and Bashir was prepared to liberally grease the wheels of selected persons high and low in order to deflect attention from him.
Sarraj had risen rapidly through the Egyptian army by hooking his wagon to that of Gamal Abdel Nasser, and when Nasser had taken power five years before, had been promoted to colonel. That had been the limit of his rise, however, and Sarraj had become disillusioned with the new President of Egypt. Sarraj had incautiously let slip his dissatisfaction with the course of his country's internal and foreign policies in a letter to his friend Ahmed Bashir. Nothing more had been said, but Bashir now knew that Sarraj was at least contemplating the toppling of Nasser. However, for this to take place, Sarraj would n
eed backers, and funding far beyond the means at his disposal. Bashir hoped he might have found a willing partner for his plundering of Egypt's undiscovered archaeological wealth.
Sarraj returned in the early evening and over dinner they talked of inconsequential things, keeping the subject away from the topic that preyed on both their minds. Soldiers served the meal and stood guard, but the Colonel was careful to say nothing while he had an audience. They took coffee in the courtyard, and lit cigars, inhaling the rich, perfumed tobacco smoke and blowing it out in pungent blue clouds toward the starlit heavens.
"What is the worth of this tomb?" Sarraj asked.
"Difficult to say," Bashir replied. "Imagine King Tut's tomb at least."
"That is a meaningless comparison. I have no knowledge of the worth of such archaeological artefacts."
Bashir nodded and sipped his coffee. "Very well. A conservative estimate puts the value of King Tut's tomb at about five million US dollars, though if the individual grave goods could be sold on the black market to collectors, one might double that. The problem is that the release of that quantity of artefacts would alert the authorities that something was amiss. It would have to be done slowly, over a period of years."
"Years are no use to me."
"There is another possibility. The account referred to the presence of a large amount of gold, ivory, precious and semi-precious stones. I estimate the worth of the gold alone as close to three million dollars. Naturally, gold has a ready market, so funds could be made available a lot sooner."
"What do you want of me?" Sarraj asked.
"Protection, logistical support."
"In what way?"
"You are military, you have connections within Egypt. You can provide transport, men, supplies, without being questioned."
"I am only a colonel."
"So was Nasser when he took power."
"True."
"So if you desire to wrest control of Egypt from him, you will..."
"Stop." Sarraj turned in his chair and scanned the shadowed courtyard. Satisfied at last that they were not overheard, he turned back to Bashir. "What do you know of this?"