The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  that sugar. Absolute poison."

  She took the glass he brought to her and returned his toast with it.

  "To life!" she agreed, and then she went on, "You are right. Duraid did

  tell me about these." She replaced the Punic bronze in the armoire, then

  came to face him at the desk. "It was also Duraid who sent me to see

  you. It was his dying instruction to me."

  "Aha! So none of this is coincidence then. It seems I am the unwitting

  pawn in some deep and nefarious plot." He pointed to the chair facing

  his desk. "Sit!" he ordered "Tell!'

  He perched above her on the corner of the desk, with the whisky glass in

  his right hand and with one long, denim-clad leg swinging lazily as the

  tail of a resting leopard. Though he was smiling quizzically, he watched

  her face with a penetrating green gaze. She thought that it would be

  difficult to lie to this man.

  She took a deep breath, "Have you heard of an ancient Egyptian queen

  called Lostris, of the second intermediate period, coexistent with the

  first Hyksos invasions?"

  He laughed a little derisively and stood up, "Oh! Now we are talking

  about the book River God, are we?" He went to the bookcase and brought

  down a copy. Although well thumbed, it was still in its dust-jacket, and

  the cover illustration was a dreamy surrealistic view in pastel shades

  of green and rose purple of the pyramids seen over water.

  He dropped it on the desk in front of her.

  "Have you read it?" she asked.

  "Yes," he nodded. "I read most of Wilbur Smith's stuff.

  He amuses me. He has shot here at Quenton Park a couple of times."

  "You like lots of sex and violence in your reading, obviously?" She

  pulled a face. "What did you think of this particular book?"

  "I must admit that he had me fooled. Whilst I was reading it, I sort of

  wished that it might be based on fact.

  That was why I phoned Duraid." Nicholas picked up the book again and

  flipped to the end of it. "The author's note was convincing, but what I

  couldn't get out of my mind was the last sentence." He read it aloud.

  "'Sanwwhere in the Abyssinian mountains near the source of the Blue

  Nile, the mummy of Tenus still lies in the unviolated tomb of Pharaoh

  Mamose.

  Almost angrily Nicholas threw the book down on the desk. "My God! You

  will never know how much I wanted it to be true. You will never know how

  much I wanted a shot at Pharaoh Mamose's tomb. I had to speak to Duraid.

  When he assured me it was all a load of bunkum, I felt cheated. I had

  built up my expectations so high that I was bitterly disappointed."

  "It's not bunkum," she contradicted him, and then corrected herself

  quickly, "well, at least not all of it."

  "I see. Duraid was lying to me, was he?"

  "Not lying," she defended him hotly. "Just delaying the truth a little.

  He wasn't ready to tell you the whole story then. He didn't have the

  answers to all the questions that he knew you would ask. He was going to

  come to you when he was ready. Your name was at the top of the list of

  potential sponsors that he had drawn up."

  "Duraid did not have the answers, but I suppose you do?" He was smiling

  sceptically. was caught once. I am not likely to fall for the same cock

  and bull a second time."

  "The scrolls exist. Nine of them are still in the, vaults at the Cairo

  museum. I was the one who discovered them in the tomb of Queen Lostris."

  Royan opened her leather sling bag and rummaged around in it until she

  brought out a thin sheaf of glossy 6 4 colour photographs. She selected

  one and passed it to him. That is a shot of the rear wall of the tomb.

  You can just make out the alabaster jars in the niche. That was taken

  before we removed them."

  "Nice picture, but it could have been taken anywhere." She ignored the

  remark and passed him another photograph. The ten scrolls in Duraid's

  workroom at the museum. You recognize the two men standing behind the

  bench?"

  He nodded. "Duraid and Wilbur Smith." His sceptical expression had

  turned to one of doubt and bemusement.

  "What the hell are you trying to tell me?"

  "What the hell I am trying to tell you is that, apart from a wide poetic

  licence that the author took unto himself, all that he- wrote in the

  book has at least some foundation in the truth. However, the scroll that

  most concerns us is the seventh, the one that was stolen by the men who

  murdered my husband."

  Nicholas stood up and went to the fireplace. He threw on another log and

  bashed it viciously with the poker, as if to give release to his

  emotions. He spoke without "turning "What was the significance of that

  particular scroll around, as opposed to the other nine?"

  "It was the one that contained the account of Pharaoh Mamose's burial

  and, we believe, directions that might enable us to find the site of the

  tomb."

  "You believe, but you aren't certain?" He swung around to face her with

  the poker gripped like a weapon. In this mood he was frightening. His

  mouth was set in a tight hard line and his eyes glittered.

  "Large parts of the seventh scroll are written in some sort of code, a

  series of cryptic verses. Duraid and I were in the process of

  deciphering these when-' she broke off and drew a long breath, "when he

  was murdered."

  "You must have a copy of something so valuable?" He glared at her, so

  that she felt intimidated. She shook her head.

  "All the microfilm, all our notes, all of it was stolen along with the

  original scroll. Then whoever killed Duraid went back to our flat in

  Cairo and destroyed my PC on to which I had transposed all our

  research."

  He threw the poker into the coal scuttle with a clatter, and came back

  to the desk. "So you have no evidence at all? Nothing to prove that any

  of this is true?"

  "Nothing," she agreed, "except what I have here." With a long slim

  forefinger she tapped her forehead. "I have a good memory."

  He frowned and ran his fingers through his thick curling hair. "And so

  why did you come to me?"

  "I have come to give you a shot at the tomb of Pharaoh Mamose, she told

  him simply. "Do you want it?"

  Suddenly his mood changed. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "At this

  moment I cannot think of anything I want more."

  Then you and I will have to draw up some sort of working agreement," she

  told him, and she leaned forward in a businesslike manner. "First, let

  me tell you what I want, and then you can do the same."

  It was hard bargaining, and it was one in the morning when Royan

  admitted her exhaustion. "I can't think straight any more. Can we start

  again tomorrow morning?" They still had not reached an agreement.

  "It's tomorrow morning already," he told her. "But you are right.

  Thoughtless of me. You can sleep here. After all, we do have

  twenty-seven bedrooms here."

  "No, thanks." She stood up. "I'll go on home."

  "The road will be icy," he warned her. Then he saw her determined

  expression and held up his hands in capitulation. "All right, I won't

  insist. What time
tomorrow? I have a meeting with my lawyers at ten, but

  we should be finished by noon. Why don't you and I have a working lunch

  here? I was supposed to be shooting at Ganton in the afternoon, but I

  will cancel that. That way I will have the afternoon and evening clear

  for you."

  Nicholas's meeting with the lawyers took place the next morning in the

  library of Quenton Park. It was not an easy nor a pleasant session, but

  then he never expected it to be. This had been the year in which his

  world began to fall to pieces around his head. He gritted his teeth as

  he remembered how the year had opened with that fatal moment of fatigue

  and inattention at midnight on the icy motorway, and the blinding

  headlights of the truck bearing down on them.

  He had not recovered from that before the next brutal blow had fallen.

  This was the financial report of the Lloyd's insurance syndicate on

  which Nicholas, like his father and grandfather before him, was a

  "Name'. For half a century the family had enjoyed a regular and

  substantial income from their share of the syndicate profits. Of

  course,'Nicholas had been aware that liability for his share of any

  losses that the syndicate suffered was unlimited. The enormity of that

  responsibility had weighed lightly; for there had never been serious

  losses to account for, not for fifty years, not until this year.

  With the California earthquake and environmental pollution claims

  awarded against one of the multinational chemical companies, the

  syndicate's losses had amounted to over twenty-six million pounds

  sterling. Nicholas's share of that loss was two and a half million

  pounds - some of which had been settled, but the rest was due for

  payment in a little over eight months' time - together with whatever

  nasty surprises next year might hold.

  Almost immediately after that the Quenton Park estate's crop of sugar

  beet, almost a thousand acres in total, had been hit by rhizomania, the

  mad root disease. They had lost the lot.

  "We will need to find at least two and a half million," said one of the

  lawyers. "That should be no problem - the Hall is filled with valuable

  items, and what about the museum? What could we reasonably expect from

  the sale of some of the exhibits?"

  Nicholas winced at the thought of selling the Ramesses statue, the

  bronzes, the Hammurabi frieze or any item of his cherished collection at

  the Hall or the museum. He acknowledged that their sale would cover his

  debts, but he doubted that he could live without them. Almost anything

  was preferable to parting with them.

  "Hell, no," Nicholas cut in, and the lawyer looked across at him coldly.

  "Well, let's see what else we've got," he continued remorselessly.

  "There's the dairy herd."

  "That will bring in a hundred thousand, if we are lucky," Nicholas

  grunted. "Leaves only two point four million to find."

  "And your racing stud," the accountant came into the conversation.

  "I have only six horses in training. Another two hundred grand."

  Nicholas smiled without humour, "Brings us down to two point two. We are

  getting there slowly."

  "The yacht," suggested the youngest lawyer.

  "It's older than I am," Nicholas shook his head, "belonged to my father,

  for heaven's sake. You probably wouldn't be able to give it away.

  Sentimental is the only value it has. My shotguns would be worth more."

  Both lawyers bent their heads over their lists, "Ah, yes!

  We have those. A pair of Purdey sidelock ejectors in good condition.

  Estimate forty thousand."

  "I also have some secondhand socks and underpants," Nicholas admitted.

  '%why don't you list those also?"

  They ignored the jibe. "men there is the London house," the elder lawyer

  went on unperturbed, inured to human suffering. "Good address. Value one

  point five million."

  "Not in this financial climate, Nicholas contradicted him. "A million is

  more realistic." The lawyer made a note in the margin of his document

  before going on, "Of course we want to avoid, if at all possible,

  putting the entire estate up for sale."

  It was a hard and difficult meeting which ended with nothing definitely

  decided, and Nicholas feeling angry and frustrated.

  He saw the lawyers off, and then went up to the family quarters to take

  a quick shower and change his shirt. As an afterthought, and for no

  good'reason, he shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks.

  He drove across the park and left the Range Rover in the museum car

  park. The snow had turned to sleet, and I his bare head was sprinkled

  with cold droplets by the time he had crossed the car park.

  Royan was waiting in Mrs. Street's office. The two of them seemed to be

  getting along well together. He stopped outside the door to listen to

  her laughter. It made him feel a little better.

  The cook had sent across a hot lunch from the main house. She seemed to

  believe that a substantial meal would keep this foul weather at bay.

  There was a tureen of thick, rich minestrone and a Lancashire hotpot,

  with a half bottle of red Burgundy for him and a jug of freshly squeezed

  orange juice for her. They ate in front of the fire, while the rain

  whipped against the windowpanes.

  While they ate he asked her to give him the details of Duraid's murder.

  She left out nothing, including her own injuries and drew back her

  sleeve to show him the dressing over the knife wound. He listened

  intently as she told him of the second attempt on her life in the

  streets of Cairo.

  "Any suspicions?" he asked, when she had finished.

  "Anybody you can think of who might be responsible?" But she shook her

  head.

  "There was no warning of any kind, she said.

  They finished the meal in silence, each of them thinking their own

  thoughts. Over the coffee he suggested, "All right, then. -What about

  our agreement?"

  They argued back and forth for nearly an hour.

  "It's difficult to agree on your share of the booty, until I know just

  what your contribution is going to be,'Nicholas protested as he topped

  up their coffee cups. "After all, I am going to be called on to finance

  and conduct the expedition-'

  "You will just have to trust that my contribution will be worthwhile,

  otherwise there will simply be no booty, as you call it. Anyway you can

  be certain I am not going to tell you one thing more until we have -an

  agreement, and have shaken hands on it."

  "A bit harsh?" he asked, and she gave him a wicked smile.

  "If you don't like my terms, there are three other names on Duraid's

  list of possible sponsors," she threatened.

  "All right," he cut in with a contrived look of martyrdom, "I agree to

  your proposal, But how do we calculate equal shares?"

  "I shall choose the first item of any archaeological artefacts we are

  able to retrieve, and you the next, and so on, turn about."

  "How about I choose first?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

  "Let's spin for it," she suggested, and he fished a pound coin from his

  pocket.

  "Call!" He flipped the coin, and while it was
in the air she called,

  "Heads."

  "Damn!" he exclaimed, as he retrieved the coin and shoved it back into

  his pocket. "So, you get first choice of the booty, if there ever is

  any." He held out his hand across the lunch table. "It will be yours to

  do exactly what you want to do with it. You can even donate it to the

  Cairo museum, if that is still your particular aberration. Deal?" he

  asked, and. she took his hand.

  "Deal," she agreed, and then added, Partner."

  "Now let's get down to it. No more secrets between us Tell me every

  detail that you have been holding back."

  "Bring that book," she pointed to the copy of River God, and while he

  fetched it she pushed the dirty dishes aside. "The first thing we should

  go over is the sections of the book that Duraid edited." She turned to

  the last pages.

  "Here. This is where Duraid's obfuscation begins."

  "Good word,'Nicholas smiled, "but let's keep it simple.

  You have obfuscated me enough already."

  She did not even smile. "You know the story to this point. Queen Lostris

  and her people are driven out of Egypt by the Hyksos and their superior

  chariots. They journey south up the Nile until they reach the confluence

  of the White and Blue Niles. In other words, present-day Khartoum. All

  this is reasonably faithful to the scrolls."

  "I recall. Go on."

  "In the holds of their river galleys they are carrying the mummified

  body of Queen Lostris's husband, Pharaoh Mamose the Eighth. Twelve years

  previously she has sworn to him as he lay dying of a Hyksos arrow

  through his lung that she would find a secure burial site for him, and

  that she would lay him in it with all his vast treasure. When they reach

  Khartoum she determines that the time has at last come for her to make

  good her promise to him. She sends out her son, the fourteen-year-old

  Prince Memnon, with a squadron of chariots to find the burial site.

  Memnon is accompanied by his mentor, the narrator of the history, the

  indefatigable Taita."

  "Okay, I remember this section. Memnon and Taita consult the black

  Shilluk slaves they have captured, and on their advice decide to follow

  the left-hand fork of the rivet, or what we know as the Blue Nile."

  Royan nodded and continued the story. "They travelled eastwards and were

  confronted by formidable mountains, so high that they were described as