by Wilbur Smith
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 coast guard's cottage of the cliffs overlooking a, grey,
storm-whipped on top 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, workscarred fist.
ave a job for you. Are you a starter?"
"Sapper, I
"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' a starter. Where do we meet?"
"At the flat. You remember it from last time.
bring your slide rule." Nicholas knew that Tomorrow. Danny put no store
by these newfangled 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 hadmorked out with Royan on the flight was
two hundred and thirty thousand. Like all budgets, he knew that it was
optimistic.
"Always add fifty percent," he warned himself "Which that the cupboard
will be bare by the time we are mean finished. Let's hope and pray that
you are not pulling our legs, Taita."
He gave the passwords to the respective bank account ants 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 attache, 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 backhand."
"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 Matta. On
his first attempt he received an encouraging ri riging tone.
me," he pleaded in a whisper, but on
"Pick it up, Jan 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 nigh
t. 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 farnily7-'
"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 wn 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 cant
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 ing 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.
"Please don't let anything happen to her," he spoke aloud, but he did
not know to whom his plea was addressed. He thought of turning back and
making her stay with him, but he had no rights in the matter, and he
knew she would not obey him. Short of physical force, there was no way
he could impose his will upon her. He had to let her go.
"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. Heim 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.
Every item of all that vast and priceless, collection of ancient
treasures that he had already assembled had been discovered by other
men. This was his chance, his last chance to make his own discovery, to
break the seals on the door of a Pharaoh's tomb and be the first man in
four thousand years to gaze upon the contents. Perhaps that Was his real
hope for immortality, and there was no price in gold and human life he
was not fully prepared to pay for it.
Already men had died in this passion of his, and he cared not that there
would be other sacrifices. No price was too high.
He checked his image in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall
opposite his bed. He smoothed the thick, coarse, dark hair. Of course it
was dyed, but that was one of his few remaining conceits. Then he
crossed the uncarpeted wooden floor of his own quarters, and opened the
door into the long conference room which would be his headquarters over
the days to come.
The persons seated there rose to their feet immedi.
lately, their attitudes servile and their expressions obsequious. Von
Schiller strode to the head of the long table and stepped up on to the
block of wood covered with carpeting that his private secretary had
placed there for him. This block went everywhere with him. It was nine
inches high. From this elevation von Schiller looked down upon the men
and one woman who waited for him. He looked them over unhurriedly,
>From the vantage point of his block, he was taller than any of them.
First he looked at Helm. The Texan had worked for him for over a decade.
Completely reliable he was strong both physically and mentally and would
follow orders without question or qualms. Von Schiller had come to rely
on him. He could send him anywhere in the world, from Zaire to
Queensland, from the Arctic Circle to the steaming equatorial forests,
and Helm would get the job done with the minimum of fuss and with very
few unpleasant consequences. He was ruthless but discreet, and like a
good hunting dog he knew his master.
From Helm he looked at the woman. butte Kemper was his private
secretary. She ordered and directed the details of his life, from his
food to his block, from his medicine to his social calendar, No man or
woman was ever received into his presence without her prior arrangement.
She was also his communications expert. The mass of electronic equipment
that occupied one wall of the hut was her preserve. He was able to find
her way through the ether with the- infallible instinct of a homing
pigeon. From the archaic art of the keyboard and Morse code 'to burst
transmissions and random switching he had never known another person,
male or female, who could match her wizardry. She was at that perfect
age for a woman, forty, slim and blonde, with slanting green eyes over
high cheekbones, resembling the young Dietrich.
Von Schiller's own wife, Ingemar, had been an invalid for the last
twenty years, and Utte Kemper had stepped into the void she had left in
his life. Yet she was more than either secretary or wife to him.
When he had first met Utte, she had been holding a very senior position
in the technical section of the German national telecommunications
network, and moonlighting as a pornographic actress - not for the money
but for love of the job. Copies of the videos she had made at that time
were amongst von Schiller's most precious possessions, after his
collection of Egyptian antiquities. Like Helm, she had no qualms. There
was nothing she would not do to him, or allow him to do to her, to
fulfill his most bizarre fantasies. When he watched her videos and she
did some of these things to him, she was the only woman who could still
bring him to orgasm. Yet even this happened less frequently with every
month that passed, and each time the spasms of sexual release she could