The Porus Legacy

by Daniel Leston

“Was that when his son forced you to retire from the Khafaghi business?”

  A slow and deliberate smile now spread across Haleem’s face before he chose to respond. “I should’ve known you would figure it out,” he said. “Sharif always said you were a perceptive man. I see now he was right.”

  It had been an easy assumption for David.

  “Only a guess on my part, Yasir. I recall his anger at Abdel’s brazen attempt to rob us, plus the developing rift between them as Sharif’s health declined. He harbored no illusions about his son’s undisciplined ways and nasty character. In our last conversation, he bemoaned the fact that Abdel would eventually gain complete control of the family enterprises—and with what he assumed would be ruinous results. He felt helpless to prevent it.” He paused. “This said, Yasir, as close as you were with Sharif, once his father died I can’t imagine Abdel wanting you around a single day longer than necessary.”

  Haleem’s smile deepened.

  “You’re correct,” he said. “That’s exactly what occurred. However, Sharif was more clever than his son knew, anticipating and outsmarting him even in death. Let me assure you, David, he proved himself far from helpless. In the month’s prior to his passing, he arranged for not just my security and financial needs in the troubled times to come, but also ensured that a great many of his own personal behests would be properly honored, their very existence hidden from his son’s greed and prying eyes. So well did he accomplish this that to this day Abdel still has my activities regularly monitored in hopes of learning what he rightly suspects has somehow been denied him.”

  Now it was David who smiled.

  “Thus it amuses you to occasionally go out of your way to disrupt and interfere in his black-market operations, am I right?”

  Haleem nodded, then again turned to Bayoumi.

  “Forgive me, Omar, for not having been completely honest. Though my motives for helping you may not have been entirely pure, you must admit the results were beneficial, were they not?”

  “Very much so. The museum will always be in your debt.”

  David twigged on something else Haleem just said.

  “You mentioned some personal ‘behests’ made by Sharif. Can I assume that included the pearl necklace you had Omar bring to me in Alexandria?”

  “Indeed. I would’ve had it delivered into your hands years sooner, but the opportunity to fulfill his dying wish never arose. Until now, that is.”

  Everything rested on David’s next question.

  “Is there an explanation you can give us? We’d all like to know just how and where he acquired it?”

  “Oh, very definitely! To the precise day, in fact. I recall the circumstances clearly, for I was there when it all transpired. I think you’ll find it quite an interesting story, my friends.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Confident of his guests’ undivided attention, Haleem began his story, occasionally interspersing sips of strong coffee into his narrative of that long ago event. The stage was his, and he knew how to set it.

  “I can even tell you the night it occurred,” he told them, “for it remains fixed in my memory to this very day. And as well it should. To be precise, it was the evening of October 10, 1973, a troubled and anxious time for most Egyptians—and in particular for all those living here in Cairo.” He paused to ask his captive audience, “Do you know why this was so?”

  Like Bayoumi, David nodded in the affirmative, familiar with the time frame despite the passage of more than forty years. “It was the height of the Yom Kippur War,” he said aloud before realizing his faux pas. His terminology wasn’t politically correct, for that war was never called such in Egypt.

  Yet Haleem chose to forgive him.

  “Israel has since labeled it thus, yes,” he acknowledged. “However we in the Arab world simply call it the October War of ’73.”

  David tilted his head in silent apology.

  “As I was saying, it was a troubling time. After some initial success, things weren’t going well for our military. Israeli forces had counter attacked in the Sinai Peninsula two days earlier, crossing the Suez Canal into Egypt south of Ismailia. Worse, they successfully used the Suez-Cairo road to advance to within sixty-five miles of our capital. As you can imagine, many of our citizens were in a panic, huge numbers fleeing inland from the various eastern cities. Such was the grim situation on that ominous night when the bearer of that extraordinary necklace showed up at Sharif’s home in central Bulaq.”

  He paused to grin at David.

  “I’m sure you recall the place.”

  “I do.”

  Though fourteen years had elapsed, David remembered his visit to Bulaq vividly. Established along the east bank of the Nile in one of the oldest and most densely populated sections of modern Cairo, the northern suburb was steeped in history. Since the late Middle Ages the district had been the city’s principle river port, a vigorous link in Egypt’s lucrative spice trade with the west. But its former importance had long dissipated, its demise beginning in earnest with the departure of the last of the great trading families early in the nineteenth century.

  Yet physical evidence of Bulaq’s prosperous past was still occasionally evident along the congested streets. Wedged between decaying buildings of concrete and mud brick, an unexpected number of the venerable, merchant mansions from the Ottoman era had somehow managed to survive the destructive onslaught of time and overpopulation. One of these few survivors was the imposing residence of Sharif Khafaghi.

  David could still picture the two-story building in his mind’s eye.

  At first perusal it had appeared deceptively plain, the outer façade of the lower level constructed of solid rectangular limestone blocks. But it was the contrasting upper floor of the old dwelling that made it historically unique and memorable to him, for it was overhung with ancient latticed mashrabiyah windows set on large corbels, something rarely found in modern Cairo.

  All in all, very impressive . . .

  “It was a rare thing in those days,” continued Haleem, “that Sharif ever conducted serious business out of his home during the evening hours. It wasn’t his wish or habit to do so. His regular customers inside the black-market understood that such matters were routinely handled during the day—and always under cover of his small rug merchandising shop located close to the Nile. On those few occasions when he did otherwise, it was only due to unusual circumstances pertaining to some of his most trusted clientele.”

  “So then the bearer of the necklace was someone of importance?” asked Bayoumi. “Someone Sharif knew and trusted, correct?”

  “No, not hardly, my friend. Quite the opposite, in fact. A complete stranger, someone neither of us had ever seen before.”

  “Yet Sharif met with him,” said David. He could think of only one possible reason to account for this. “Was it simply because of the great value of what the man had to sell?”

  “Actually, no. In fact, Sharif agreed to see him even before learning what was being offered.”

  Confused, David asked the obvious question.

  “Why?”

  “Knowing Sharif’s compassionate nature, I’d say his decision arose from simple pity—and perhaps curiosity, as well.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Haleem hesitated before responding.

  “Maybe I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself,” he admitted. “Let me clarify a few things that might better explain. Firstly, you should know that the person who arrived at Sharif’s gatehouse on that distant evening could more properly be described as a boy. In looking back, I’d guess he was somewhere around sixteen. At most, possibly seventeen. So thin, dirty, and poorly clothed was he it was difficult to tell. My initial reaction was he was likely one of the newly arrived refugees fleeing ahead of the Israeli advance. I later had reason to change my opinion, but at the time I must say his grim physical appearance only added to my original suspicion.”

  “How so?” asked Bayoumi.

  “It was the sev
erity of the damage done to his face, an ugly, ragged cut running from the bridge of his nose to below his left ear. And no question it was recent, for it was badly inflamed and not beginning to properly close. It rightly called for multiple stitches, but for reasons unknown, the youngster had apparently sought no medical help. This in itself struck me as somehow odd, considering the availability of two or three free clinics in Bulaq. Most everyone on the streets knew they existed, yet this youth had chosen not to avail himself.”

  “Perhaps it was merely a fear of getting so many stitches?” offered Elizabeth. “As you say, he was scarcely more than a boy.”

  Haleem considered this only briefly before rejecting it.

  “True, but he didn’t strike me as someone who might harbor any sort of fear along those lines. Truthfully, I can’t recall ever seeing anyone so young with such an intense determination burning in his eyes. It was quite extraordinary. Even Sharif later commented on this.”

  David saw a plausible alternative to Elizabeth’s theory.

  “Maybe it was a different kind of fear that prevented him from seeking medical attention. If he acquired the necklace through an act of violence—which seems apparent—then I can readily understand a reluctance to draw undue attention to himself that could link him to a crime.” He shrugged. “Either way, can we assume Sharif negotiated the purchase?”

  Haleem nodded.

  “He did. The piece was so distinctive and beautiful that he couldn’t resist possessing it. In his line of business, how could he not? After all, if he didn’t acquire it, then there were certainly others in Cairo who would do so—and most likely not to the youngster’s benefit. Not even close. I don’t know what final price they settled on, but I can assure you it was equitable under the circumstances. Since the piece had no provenance, whatsoever, all the risks of reselling such an item to a prospective buyer belonged to Sharif, its marketability never assured by any means.”

  “Was that why he kept it all these years?”

  “Who can say? I suspect he found it so unique that he became unwilling to part with it. As the years slipped by and his health finally began to fail, for whatever reasons, he chose to bequeath it to you. If I had to guess, I believe it bothered him to think of it one day falling into Abdel’s hands.”

  “Did his son know of it?”

  “Not to my direct knowledge, no.”

  “So why me?”

  “I’m really not sure. I do know he held you in high regard. Perhaps he felt you were the most suited to appreciate it—not just for its intrinsic beauty, but also for its possible historical significance. You must admit that its origin represents a curious mystery, does it not?”

  Indeed! thought David. Far more than Haleem could possibly imagine.

  “And what about the youngster?”

  “I’m sorry to say that night was the last we ever saw of him. He gave us no name, nothing.”

  David sighed. As interesting as Haleem’s story was, it really had provided them with little meaningful information. But was this all of it? Now he remembered something the old man had briefly alluded to, but never explained.

  “Correct me if I misunderstood, Yasir, but I think you mentioned you later had reason to change your opinion about the youngster being one of the many refugees fleeing ahead of the Israeli advance?”

  “Yes, this is true. Didn’t I say?”

  David shook his head.

  “Well, it was a minor thing, to be sure. When I searched him as a precaution prior to taking him in to meet with Sharif, one of the few things I took from his pockets was a used train stub from the previous day. Rather than being from one of the northeastern cities, instead it was from quite a different direction. To be exact, it was purchased and issued at the city of Qena, some three hundred miles south of Cairo.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Definitely. I may be getting old, David, but my memory remains sound.” He glanced at his three guests in turn. “Is—is this somehow important?”

  At this point, David wasn’t sure.

  “It may well be,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was late afternoon as David drove his rented sedan back across the now sweltering city streets to the Cairo Marriott Hotel. They rode in silence, no one the least enthusiastic about what was actually learned from Haleem. At best, his story seemed like unconnected bits and pieces of information telling them really nothing beyond the fact that the source of the enigmatic necklace was a facially damaged youth of undetermined background—and this occurred over forty years in the past.

  It frustrated David having nothing tangible to act upon.

  Elizabeth and Bayoumi’s somber expressions told him he wasn’t alone.

  Through no apparent fault of Haleem, it appeared their investigation had reached an early dead-end, effectively terminated before even begun. And maybe it was just as well, thought David that their high expectations were so abruptly dashed. After the passage of so many centuries perhaps it was only inevitable that the ancient artifact’s origin would never surface. A regrettable situation, but such was life. As an experienced archaeologist, he’d learned most tantalizing mysteries often remained just that—unsolved mysteries. This apparently was going to be one of those occasions.

  He swung the car into the main lot and parked close to the hotel’s entrance.

  Prior to their dawn flight from Alexandria, booking a stay at the Cairo Marriott was an obvious choice, for it also happened to be Bayoumi’s year-round residence. Centrally located within a mere fifteen minutes of the Egyptian Museum, it was a paid, living accommodation put entirely at his disposal by the government since he became the famed museum’s Director of Antiquities. Being a confirmed bachelor in his mid-forties—not to mention a habitual workaholic—this only added to its practical convenience. As Bayoumi explained, with the majority of his time spent elsewhere, why bother owning his own home?

  The arrangement met his needs and made complete sense.

  Before parting ways with Bayoumi in the heavily air-conditioned lobby, they agreed to freshen up for an hour before dining, afterward going to David’s suite to discuss what other possible options—if any—might realistically lay open to them. At the moment, however, this latter prospect seemed bleak.

  Depressed nothing positive had yet come to mind, he led Elizabeth to the guest elevator serving the hotel’s northern high-rise tower and hit the button for the nineteenth floor.

  Five minutes later, while Elizabeth used the opportunity to take a quick shower in their sumptuous suite, David poured a double shot of scotch from the honor bar before placing his promised call to Rashidi’s cell phone back in Alexandria. It wasn’t a connection he was eager to make, for he could well imagine his friend’s expected reaction to their apparent failure.

  The conversation went much as expected.

  Though audibly disappointed by the scant details that came out of the meeting, Rashidi nevertheless took the time to fill David in on the many tests he and his trusted man, Ammar, had been running in their laboratory. Today being Saturday, the traditional Muslim day of rest, the Alexander Exhibit was closed to the public, allowing the two men the opportunity to conduct a thorough and uninterrupted comparison between both necklaces.

  The results only confirmed what was already obvious.

  In every way that mattered, metallurgical analysis of Haleem’s surprise delivery to David exactly mirrored those performed several years earlier on the necklace found in Alexander’s tomb. Subjected to x-ray fluorescence, it also passed every routine test under mass spectrometry. The near-identical gold chain contained absolutely no trace of modern impurities, leaving no question of its antiquity. As further proof of authenticity, a microscopic examination of the gold wire holding the huge pearl in suspension showed no detectable hint of longitudinal lines. In Rashidi’s estimation it could only have been fashioned in the ancient manner by a master craftsman, painstakingly twisting a hammered strip of gold.

  Da
vid ended the call by saying he’d keep in touch as to their plans.

  “That was Ahmed, I take it,” said Elizabeth as he replaced the phone. Already out of the shower and dressed for dinner, she’d slipped in without his noticing and extracted the manila envelope from his open briefcase on the table. It contained three close-up photos of the necklace provided them by Rashidi the night before. “Was it a big let-down for him?”

  “No more than for the rest of us, hon.”

  As she perused the pictures, David glanced at his wristwatch and tossed back what little remained in his glass. The drink had proven beneficial, and he was tempted to pour another. “I expect it’s going to be a while before Omar arrives. If you want something, I saw a decent wine in there you might enjoy.”

  She passed on his offer before settling into one of the plush armchairs in the living area. “Since you say we’ve got time,” she said, “can you give me your thoughts on a few things?”

  “Such as?”

  “For openers, are you going to recommend we go to Qena?”

  David shook his head without hesitation.

  “I see no practical point—not unless Omar has a damn good reason I don’t know about. Qena is one of the larger cities in southern Egypt, well over a hundred thousand people according to the travel guide. Our chances of ever tracking down some kid from forty years ago would be next to nil, like finding a minuscule needle hidden in a mammoth haystack.”

  She didn’t appear surprised.

  “I figured as much, but thought I better ask. Which brings me to another question. Do you still suspect Haleem’s necklace came from a so-called ‘Porus legacy’ handed down through the Ptolemies?”

  “I’m still leaning this way,” he admitted. “That part hasn’t changed. It’s the only theory so far that accounts for its existence.”

  “Then maybe you could you do me a small favor?”

  “Of course. Name it.”

  “I need a quick refresher lesson regarding the end of the dynasty. I have some general knowledge of what happened, but the actual historical truth of it all remains a bit vague. Touching the highlights would be a big help. Do you mind?”