by Wilbur Smith
gates to the estate were made of ornate cast iron. A little further on,
the road divided and a cluster of road signs pointed the way to the
various destinations: "Quenton Hall, Private', "Estate Office' and
"Museum'.
The road to the museum curved through the deer park where herds of
fallow deer grazed under the winter'bare oaks. Through the misty
landscape she had glimpses of the big house. According to the guidebook
that the Prof had given her, Sir Christopher Wren had designed the house
in 1693, and the master landscapist, Capability Brown, had created the
gardens sixty years later. The results were perfection.
The museum was set in a grove of copper beech trees half a mile beyond
the house. It was a sprawling building that had obviously been added to
more than once over the years. Mrs. Street was waiting for her at the
side door, and introduced herself as she let Royan in. She was middle
aged, grey-haired and self-assured. "I was at your lecture on Monday
evening. Fascinating! I have a guidebook for you, but you will find the
exhibits well catalogued and described.
I have spent almost twenty years at the job. There are no other visitors
today. You will have the place to yourself.
You must just wander around and please yourself. I shall not leave until
five this evening, so you have all afternoon.
If I can help you in any way my office is at the end of the passage.
Please don't hesitate."
From the first moment that Royan walked into the display of African
mammals she was enthralled. The primate room housed a complete
collection of every single species of ape and monkey from that
continent: from the great ilver-backed male gorilla to the delicate
colobus in his long flowing mantle of black and white fur, they were all
represented.
Although some of the exhibits were over a hundred years old, they were
beautifully preserved and presented, set in painted dioramas of their
natural habitat. It was obvious that the museum must employ a staff of
skilled artists and taxidermists. She could guess what this must have
cost. Wryly she decided that the five million'dollars from the sale of
the plundered treasure had been well spent.
She went through to the antelope room and stared around her in wonder at
the magnificent beasts preserved here. She stopped before a diorama of a
family group of the giant sable antelope of the now extinct Angolan
variety, Hippotragus niger variant. While she admired the jet black and
snowy-chested bull with his long, back-swept horns, she mourned his
death at the hand of one of the Quenton, Harper family. Then she checked
herself. Without the strange dedication and passion of the
hunter-collector who had killed him, future generations might never have
been able to look upon this regal presence.
She passed on into the next hall which was given over to displays of the
African elephant, and paused in the centre of the room before a pair of
ivory tusks so large that she could not believe they had ever been
carried by a living animal. They seemed more like the marble columns of
some Hellenic temple to Diana, the goddess of the chase.
She stooped to read the printed catalogue card:
Tusks of the African Elephant, Loxodonta africana.
Shot in the Lado Enclave in 1899 by Sir Jonathan Quenton-Harper. Left
tusk 289 lb. Right tusk 301 lb. Length of larger tusk 11' 4'. Girth 32".
The largest pair of tusks ever taken by a European hunter.
They stood twice as high as she was tall, and they were half as thick
again as her waist. As she passed on into the Egyptian room
she-marvelled at the size and strength of the creature that had carried
them.
She came up short as her eyes fell upon the figure in the centre of the
room. It was a fifteen-foot-high figure of Rarnesses 11, depicted as the
god Osiris in polished red granite. The god-emperor strode out on
muscular legs, wearing only sandals on his feet and a short kilt. In his
left hand he carried the remains of a warlbow, with both the upper and
lower limbs of the weapon broken off. This was the only damage that the
statue had suffered in all those thousands of years. The rest of it was
perfect - the plinth even bore the marks of the mason's chisel. In his
right fist Pharaoh carried a seal embossed with his royal cartouche.
Upon his majestic head he wore the tall double crown of the upper and
lower kingdoms. His expression was calm and enigmatic.
Royan recognized the statue instantly, for its twin i stood in the grand
hall of the Cairo museum. She passed it every day on her way to her
office.
She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her
very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's
sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the
great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her
emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to
read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.
The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: "I
am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots - Fear me, of ye
enemies of Egypt."
Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice
close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone
approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.
His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.
There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn
but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers - the type of genteel shabbiness
that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem
too concerned with one's appearance.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," He smiled eazy.
'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly "t smi
crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.
"Oh, it's you." She should have been flattered that he remembered her
from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his
eyes again that offended her.
Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.
"Nick Quenton-Harper," he introduced himself. "You must be Percival
Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.
Weren't you beating for us?"
His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles
subsiding as she responded, "Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew
my husband, Duraid Al Simma."
"Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time
in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?"
"He's dead." She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but
then there was no other reply she could think of.
"I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?"
"Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.
"Oh, my God." She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that
he also had suffered. "I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four
months ago. He was his old charming s
elf Have they found the person who
did it?"
She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face
him and let him see that her eyes were wet. "You have an extraordinary
collection here."
He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my
grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring - Over Bearing, as his
numerous enemies called him. He was the British man in . Cairo during-'
She cut him short. "Yes, I have heard of Evelyn Baring, the first Earl
of Cromer, British Consul-General of Egypt from 1883 to 1907. With his
plenipotentiary powers he was the unchallenged dictator of my country
for all that period. Numerous enemies, as you say."
Nicholas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Percival warned me you were one of
his best students. He didn't, however, warn me of your strong
nationalistic feelings. It is clear that you didn't need me to translate
the Ramesses inscription for you."
"My own father was on the staff of Gama! Abdel Nasser," she murmured.
Nasser was the man who had toppled the puppet King Farouk and finally
broken the British power in Egypt. As president he had nationalized the
Suez Canal in the face of British outrage.
"HaV he chuckled. "Different sides of the track. But things have
changed. I hope we don't have to be enemies?"
"Not at all," she agreed. "Duraid held you in the highest esteem."
"As I did him." He changed the subject again. "We ar very proud of our
collection of royal ushabd Examples from the tomb of every pharaoh from
the old Kingdom onwards, right up to the last of the Ptolemys. Please
let me show it to you." She followed him to the huge display case that
occupied one complete wall of the hall. It was lined with shelf after
shelf of the doll-like figures which had been placed in the tombs to act
as servants and slaves for the dead kings in the shadow world.
With his own key Nicholas opened the glazed doors of the case and
reached up to bring down the most interesting of the exhibits. "This is
the ushabd of Maya who served under three pharaohs, Tutankhamen, Ay and
Horemheb.
It is from the -tomb of Ay who died in 1343 Bc."
He handed the doll to her and she read aloud the three thousand-year-old
hieroglyphics as easily as though they had been the headlines of that
morning's newspaper.
"I am Maya, Treasurer of the two Kingdoms. I will answer for the divine
Pharaoh Ay. May he live for ever!" She spoke in Arabic to test him, and
his reply in the same language was fluent and colloquial, "It seems that
Percival Dixon told me the truth. You must have been an exceptional
student."
Engrossed now in their common interest, speaking alternately Arabic and
English, the initial sharp prickles.of antagonism between them were
dulled. They moved slowly round the hall, lingering before each display
case to handle and examine minutely each object that it contained.
It was as though they were transported back over the millennia. Hours
and days seemed of no consequence in the face of such antiquity, and so
it startled both of them when Mrs. Street returned to interrupt them, "I
am off now, Sir Nicholas. Can I leave it to you to lock up and set the
alarm? The security guards are on duty already."
"What time is it?"Nicholas answered his own question by glancing at the
stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist. "Five-forty already, what
on earth happened to the day?" He sighed theatrically. "Off you go, Mrs.
Street. Sorry we kept you so long."
"Don't forget to set the alarm," she warned him, and then to Royan, "He
can be so absent-minded when he is off on one of his hobby-horses." Her
fondness towards her employer was obviously that of an indulgent aunt.
"You've given me enough orders for one day. Off you go," Nicholas
grinned, as he turned back to Royan. "Can't let you go without showing
you something that Duraid."was in on with me. Can you stay for a few
minutes longer?" She nodded and he reached out as if to take her arm,
and then dropped his hand. In the Arab world it is insulting to touch a
woman, even in such a casual manner. She was aware of the courtesy, and
she warmed to his good manners and easy style a little more.
He led her out of the exhibition halls through a door marked "Private.
Staff Only', and down a long corridor to the room at the end.
The inner sanctum." He ushered her in. "Excuse the mess'. I must really
get around to tidying up in here one of these years. My wife used to-'
He broke off abruptly, and he glanced at the silver-framed photograph of
a family group on his desk. Nicholas and a beautiful dark-haired woman
sat on a picnic rug under the spreading branches of an oak. There were
two little girls with them and the family resemblance to the mother was
strong in both of them. The youngest child sat on Nicholas's lap while
the elder girl stood behind them, holding the reins of her Shetland
pony. Royan glanced sideways at him and saw the devastating sorrow in
his eyes.
So as not to embarrass him she looked around the rest of the room, which
was obviously his study and workshop.
It was spacious and comfortable, a man's room, but it illustrated the
contradictions of his character - the bookish scholar set against the
man of action. Amongst the muddle of books and museum specimens lay
fishing reels and a Hardy split cane salmon rod. On a row of wall hooks
hung a Barbour jacket, a canvas shotgun slip and a leather cartridge bag
embossed with the initials ..-.
She recognized some of the framed pictures on the walls. They were
original nineteenth-century watercolours by the Scottish traveller David
Roberts, and others by Vivant Denon who had accompanied Napoleon's
L'armie de I'Orient to Egypt. They were fascinating views of the
monuments drawn before the excavations and restorations of more modern
times.
Nicholas went to the fireplace and threw a log on the fading coals. He
kicked it until it flared up brightly and then beckoned her to stand in
front of the floor-to-ceiling curtains that covered half of one wall.
With a conjuror's flourish he pulled the tasselled cord that opened the
curtains and exclaimed with satisfaction, "
"What do you make of that, then?"
She studied the magnificent has-relief frieze that was mounted on the
wall. The detail was beautiful and the rendition magnificent, but she
did not let her admiration show. Instead she gave her opinion in offhand
tones.
"Sixth King of the Amorite dynasty, Hammurabi, about 1780 Bc," she said,
pretending to study the finely chiselled features of the ancient monarch
before she went on, "Yes, probably from his palace site south-west of
the ziggurat at Ashur. There should have been a pair of these friezes.
They are worth in the region of five million US dollars each. My guess
is that they were stolen from the saintly ruler of modern Mesopotamia,
Saddam Hussein, by two unprincipled rogues. I hear that the other one of
the pair is at present in the collection of a certain Mr Peter Walsh in
Texas."
He stared at her in astonishment, and then burst out laughing. "Damn it!
I swore'Duraid to secrecy but he must have told you about our naughty
little escapade." It was the first time she had heard him laugh. It
seemed to come naturally to his lips and she -liked the sound of it,
hearty and unaffected.
"You are right about the present owner of the second frieze," he told
her, still laughing. "But the price was six million, not five."
"Duraid also told me about your visit to the Tibesti Massif in Chad and
southern Libya," she remarked, and he shook his head in mock contrition.
'it seems I have no secrets from you." He went to a tall armoire against
the opposite wall. It was a magnificent piece of marquetry furniture,
probably seventeenth-century French. He opened the double doors and
said, "This is what Duraid and I brought back from Libya, without the
consent of Colonel Muammar al Gadaffi."He took down one of the exquisite
little bronzes and handed it to her. It was the figure of a mother
nursing her infant, and it had a green patina of age.
"Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca," he said, "about 203 BC. These were
found by a band of Tuareg at one of his old camps on the Bagradas river
in North Africa.
Hannibal must have cached them there before his defeat by the Roman
general Scipio. There were over two hundred bronzes in the hoard, and I
still have fifty of the best of them."
"You sold the rest of them?" she asked, as she admired the statuette.
There was disapproval in her tone as she went on, "How could you bear to
part with something so beautiful?"
He sighed unhappily, "Had to, I am afraid. Very sad, but the expedition
to retrieve them cost me a fortune. Had to cover expenses by selling
some of the booty."
He went to his desk and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky
from the bottom drawer. He placed the bottle on the desk top and set two
glasses beside it.
"Can I tempt you?" he asked, but she shook her head.
"Don't blame you. Even the Scots themselves admit that this brew should
only be drunk in sub-zeiro weather on The Hill, in a forty-knot gale,
after stalking and shooting a ten-point stag. May I offer you something
a little more ladylike?"
Do you have a Coke?" she suggested.
Yes, but that is really bad for you, even worse than Laphroaig. It's all