The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  Nicholas waved and smiled at him through the side window, murmuring,

  "Screw you, Nogo, screw you very much indeed."

  When at last the pilot lifted the little Cessna 260 off the rough grass

  strip, the horizon over the Abbay gorge resembled a field of cosmic

  mushrooms, vast thunderheads reaching up into the stratosphere. The air

  beneath them i was turbulent as a storm sea and they were thrown about

  mercilessly in the rear seats. Up in front Geoffrey seemed to be faring

  no better. He was very quiet and took no interest in their conversation.

  There had been no opportunity for them to talk privately the previous

  evening, what with either Geoffrey or Nogo hovering within earshot at

  all times. Now with their heads close together, the engine beat covering

  their voices and Geoffrey occupied with his own queasy thoughts, they

  were able to concoct their story.

  Geoffrey had made it clear that the British Ambassador in Addis was less

  than delighted with the inconvenience they had caused him. Apparently

  there had been a string of faxes from Whitehall since they had been

  reported missing. Added to that, the Ethiopian Commissioner of Police

  was anxious to question them. They had to make sure that they did not

  implicate Mek Nimmur in the killing of Boris Brusilov, and at the same

  time they must not alert or alarm Pegasus in any way. They realized that

  the reaction from that quarter would be swift and probably lethal if

  they gave the least suspicion that they knew who the other players were

  in Taita's game.

  Most of all they must avoid antagonizing the Ethiopian authorities, or

  give them any cause to cancel their visas and declare them to be

  undesirable immigrants. They agreed to feign ignorance and play the role

  of innocents caught up in affairs which they had not precipitated and

  which they did not understand.

  By the time that they landed at Addis Ababa they had prepared their

  story and rehearsed it thoroughly. As soon as the Cessna pulled on to

  the hardstand in front of the airport buildings and the pilot cut the

  engine, Geoffrey came back to life again, only a little green around the

  gills, and handed Royan down the aircraft steps with a flourish.

  "Of course, you will stay at the residence," he told them. "The hotels

  in town are too dreadful to contemplate, and HE has a half-decent chef

  and a passable wine cellar. I will rustle up some togs for both of you.

  My missus is about the same size as you, Dr Al Simma, and Nicky will fit

  into my gear at a pinch. Thank God, I have a spare dinner jacket. HE is

  a bit of a stickler for form."

  The British Ambassador's residence had been built during the reign of

  the old Emperor, Haile Selassie, before Mussolini's invasion in the

  1930s. Set on the outskirts of the town, it was an example of the better

  colonial architecture, with a thatched roof and wide verandas. The

  lawns, tended by. a host of gardeners, were wide and green, contrasting

  with the brilliant crimson of the poinsettia. The mansion had survived

  both the revolution and the war of liberation that followed.

  At the front entrance Geoffrey handed them over to an Ethiopian butler

  in a long, spotlessly white shamnw, who showed them to adjoining

  bedrooms on the second floor. Nicholas heard the bathwater running in

  Royan's suite next door as he lay in his own brimming bath, sipping a

  whisky and soda and twiddling the taps with his big toe.

  Then there was the murmur of the doctor's voice from next door as he

  attended to Royan's knee.

  Geoffrey's dinner jacket was loose round his waist and too short in the

  arms and legs, and his shoes pinched, added to which Nicholas was in

  need of a haircut, he realized, as he surveyed himself in the mirror.

  "No help for it, now, he decided with resignation, and went to knock on

  Royan's door.

  "I say!" he exclaimed as she opened it. Sylvia Tennant had loaned her a

  lime'green cocktail dress that set off Royan's olive skin marvellously

  well, Royan had washed her hair and left it loose on her shoulders. He

  felt his pulse accelerate like a teenager on his first date, and laughed

  at himself.

  "You look absolutely scrumptious," he told her, and meant it.

  "Thank you, sir," she laughed back at him, "and you look very dashing

  yourself May I take your arm?"

  "I was hoping to carry you. Addictive activity."

  "Those days are over," she told him, and brandished the carved ebony

  walking-stick with which the butler had provided her. She used it on her

  bad side. As they started down the long corridor, she asked in a

  whisper, "What is the name of our host?"

  "Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador, Sir Oliver Bradford KCMG."

  "Which stands for Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George,

  right?" she asked.

  "No," he corrected her, "it stands for Kindly Call Me God."

  "You are impossible!" She giggled, and then became serious. "Did you

  manage to send-the fax to Mrs. Street?"

  "It went through at the first attempt and she acknowledged. Sends you

  her salaams, and promises to have some information about Pegasus double

  pronto." It was a mild evening and Sir Oliver was waiting to greet them

  on the veranda. Geoffrey hurried forward to make the introductions. The

  Ambassadot-bad a bush of white hair and a red face. Geoffrey had warned

  them about him and his view on troublesome tourists, but his hostile

  frown started to fade as soon as he laid eyes on Royan.

  There were a dozen other guests for dinner apart from Geoffrey and

  Sylvia Tennant, and Sir Oliver took Royan's arm and led her around the

  group introducing her. Nicholas trailed along behind them, resigned by

  now to the fact that Royan had that effect on most men.

  "May I present General Obeid, the Commissioner of Police," Sir Oliver

  said. The head of the Ethiopian police force was tall and very

  dark-complexioned, suave and elegant in his blue mess uniform. He bowed

  over Royan's hand.

  believe that we have an appointment to meet tomorrow morning. I look

  forward to that with the keenest pleasure."

  Royan glanced at Sir Oliver uncertainly. She had been told nothing of

  this.

  "General Obeid wants to know from you and Sir Nichola a little more

  about this business in, the Abbay gorge," Sir Oliver explained. "I took

  the liberty of having my secretary make the appointment."

  "Just a routine interview, I assure you both, Dr Al Simma and Sir

  Nicholas. I will take up very little of your time, I promise you that."

  "Of course we will do everything that we can to assist you" Nicholas

  told him politely. "What time are we coming to see you?"

  "I believe we are meeting at eleven in the morning, if that suits you."

  "A most civilized hour,'Nicholas agreed.

  "My driver will pick you up at ten-thirty, and take you down to police

  headquarters," Sir Oliver promised.

  At the dinner table Royan was seated between Sir Oliver and General

  Obeid. She was pretty and charming, and both men were attentive.

  Nicholas realized that he would have to become accustomed to sharing her

&nbs
p; company with other men; he had had her to himself for much too long.

  For his own part, Nicholas found Lady Bradford at the other end of the

  table rather heavy-going. She was a second wife, thirty years younger

  than her husband, with a pronounced London accent and an even more

  pronounced common streak, with a mane of dyed blonde hair and an

  improbable bust which overflowed her sequined cleavage.

  An old man's folly, Nicholas concluded. It appeared that she had made

  herself an expert on the genealogy of the English aristocracy - in other

  words she was an arrant snob.

  She questioned him closely on his antecedents, insisting on going back

  several generations.

  In the end she called to her husband down the table, "Sir Nicholas owns

  Quenton Park. Did you know that, dear?" And then she turned back to

  Nicholas. "My husband is a very keen shot."

  Sir Oliver looked suitably impressed by his wife's intelligence.

  "Quenton Park, hey? I read an article in the Shooting Times the other

  day. You have a drive there called the "High Beeches". Is that right?"

  "The "High Larches",'Nicholas corrected him.

  "Some of the best birds in Britain. That's what they said," Sir Oliver

  enthused, looking eager and expectant.

  "I don't know about that,'Nicholas protested modestly.

  "But we are rather proud of them. You must come and have a shot at them

  next time you are home - as my guest, Of course."

  From that moment Sir Oliver's attitude towards Nicholas altered

  dramatically. He became affable and solicitous, even going so far as to

  send the butler to fetch a bottle of the 1954 Lafite.

  "You have made a good impression," Geoffrey murmured wryly. "HE doesn't

  waste the 1954 on anybody but the chosen few."

  It was after midnight when Nicholas was at last able to escape from his

  hostess and rescue Royan from Sir Oliver and General Obeid. He led her

  away, supporting her as she limped along fetchingly at his side,

  avoiding Geoffrey Tennant's knowing and speculative gaze until they had

  negotiated the first landing of the staircase.

  "Well, you were definitely the star of the evening," he told her.

  "You had Lady Bradford purring like a cat," she counterattacked, and he

  was delighted to hear the faint tone of possessive jealousy in her

  voice. He had not been the only one.

  At her door she solved any problems by offering him her cheek, and he

  kissed it chastely.

  "Those bosoms!" she murmured. "Don't have nightmares about them." And

  she closed the door behind her.

  He felt quite jaunty as he went to his own room, but as he opened the

  door he saw the envelope lying at the threshold. During dinner, one of

  the servants must have pushed it under the door. Quickly he tore open

  the flap of the envelope and unfolded the pages that it contained. His

  expression changed as he scanned through them, and he left the bedroom

  and went back to tap on Royan's door.

  After a moment she opened it a crack, and peeped out at him. He saw the

  confusion in her eyes, and he hurried to allay her suspicions.

  "Reply to my fax." He showed her the sheaf of papers.

  "Are you decent?"

  "One moment." She closed the door, and opened it again only seconds

  later. "Come in, she said.

  She indicated the decanter on the cabinet. "Would you like a nightcap?"

  "I think I need one. We know who runs Pegasus now."

  "Tell me!" she ordered, but he took his time pouring a Scotch, and then

  smiled at her over his shoulder. "How about a soda water for you?"

  "Damn you, Nicholas Quenton-Harper." She stamped her stockinged foot.

  "Don't you dare torment me. Who is it?, "When I first met you, you were

  a dutiful little Arab girl. One who realized the superiority of the mate

  species.

  Listen to you now. I think I have spoiled you."

  "I think I should warn you that you are flirting with disaster." She

  tried to suppress her smile. "Tell me, please, Nicky."

  "Sit down," he ordered, and took the armchair facing her. He unfolded

  the fax and then looked up at her. "Mrs. Street has worked fast. In my

  fax, I suggested that she rang my stockbroker in the city. We are three

  hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time, so it seems that she must have

  caught him before he left his office. Anyway, she has all the

  information I asked for."

  "Stop it, Nicky, or I will tear my bodice and scream and cause a

  scandal. Tell me!'

  He rustled the pages, and then read. "Pegasus Exploration is registered

  on the Sydney Stock Exchange in Australia with a share capital of twenty

  million-'

  "Don't go through all the details," she pleaded. "Just name the man."

  "Sixty-five percent of the shares in Pe asus are owned by Valhalla

  Mining Company," he continued imperturbably, "and the remaining

  thirty-five percent are owned by Anaconda Metals of Austria."

  She had given up pleading with him and sat forward in her chair,

  watching him with a fixed gaze.

  "Both Valhalla and Anaconda are fully-owned subsidiaries of HMI, Hamburg

  Manufacturing Industries. All the shares in HMI are owned by the von

  Schiller family trust, the sole trustees of which are Gotthold Ernst von

  Schiller and his wife, Ingemar."

  "Von Schiller," she repeated softly, still staring at him.

  "Duraid had him on his list of possible sponsors. He must have read the

  Wilbur Smith book - I know it has been translated into German. He

  probably contacted Duraid just the way that you did. But he was not put

  off as easily as you were by Duraid's denials."

  "That's the way I read it also, Nicholas nodded. "It would have been

  easy to sniff around the Cairo museum, and find that Duraid and you were

  working on something big. The rest of it we know only too well."

  "But how did he move Pegasus into Ethiopia so quickly?"she demanded.

  "That must have been a stroke of luck on von Schiller's side - the luck

  of the devil. Geoffrey tells me that Pegasus obtained a concession to

  prospect for copper from President Mengistu five years ago, just before

  he was ousted. Von Schiller was already in place, even before he heard

  about the scrolls. All it involved was moving the base camp down from

  the north where they were working and relocating it on the escarpment of

  the Abbay gorge, to be ready to take advantage of any fresh

  developments. We will probably find his dirty tricks that Jake Helm is

  one of his heavies, specialist that he sends to any of his trouble spots

  around the world. It's apparent that he has Nogo in his pocket.

  We waltzed right into their arms."

  Royan looked thoughtful. "It all makes sense. As soon as Helm reported

  our arrival to his master, von Schiller must have ordered him to set up

  the shufta raid on our camp. Oh, sweet heaven, I hate him. I have never

  laid eyes on him, but I hate him more than I thought I was capable of

  hating anything or anybody."

  "Well, at least we know now who we are dealing with."

  "Not altogether," she demurred. "Von Schiller must have had a man in

  Cairo. Somebody on the inside there."

  "What is the name of your min
ister?" Nicholas wanted to know.

  "No," she denied it instantly. "Not Atalan Abou Sin. I have known him

  all my life. He is a tower of integrity."

  "It's amazing what effect a bribe of a hundred thousand dollars or so

  can have on the foundations of even the best constructed tower,"

  Nicholas observed quietly, and she looked stricken.

  They were the only two at breakfast. Sir Oliver had left for his office

  an hour earlier, and Lady Bradford had not yet risen to greet the clear,

  cool highland morning, "I hardly slept last night, thinking about

  Atalan. Oh, Nicky, I can't bear even the suspicion that he might be

  involved in Duraid's murder."

  "Sorry if I gave you a rough night, but we have to consider all the

  angles," he tried to soothe her, and then changed the subject. "We have

  wasted enough time here.

  Pegasus have got a clear run of the field at the moment. I want to get

  back home, and start putting together our own expeditionary force for

  the return."

  "Would you like me to get on to the airline and make our reservations?"

  She stood up immediately. "I will go off and find a phone."

  "Finish your breakfast first."

  "I have had all I want." She made for the door, and he called after her.

  "No wonder you are so skinny- They tell me anorexia nervosa is a rotten

  way to go." And he helped himself to another slice of toast and

  marmalade.

  She was back within fifteen minutes. "Tomorrow afternoon at

  three-thirty. Kenya Airways to Nairobi, connecting the same evening with

  British Airways to Heathrow."

  "Well done." He wiped his mouth on his napkin, and stood up. "Our car is

  waiting to take us down to police headquarters to speak to your new

  admirer, General Obeid.

  Let's go."

  There was a police officer waiting to meet them and usher them into the

  headquarters building, through the private entrance. He introduced

  himself as Inspector Galla and treated them with the greatest deference

  as he led them through to the Commissioner's suite.

  General Obeid rose to his feet as soon as they entered his office, and

  came around his desk to greet them. He was charming and affable, fussing

  over Royan as he led them through to his private sitting room. Once they

  were seated, Inspector Galla poured the inevitable tiny bowls of bitter

  black coffee.

  After a polite interval of small talk the general came directly to the