The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  The director, of course, would never be so gauche as to say that directly. In fact, he was the very model of courtesy. Augustus enjoyed a delicious cup of coffee, two cigarettes, and half an hour of intellectually stimulating conversation on art and history, and he had achieved precisely nothing.

  A casual mention of his Légion d’Honneur changed all that. The director became effusive, all doors were thrown open, and within five minutes Augustus was examining the statuette of Horus.

  One look told Augustus his new assistant had been correct. The chip on the statuette’s thigh was exactly where Moustafa had said it was, and there was no damage to the base like there was on his own statuette.

  His next stop was the antiquities wholesaler who had sold him the ebony Horus. At the expense of a few minor purchases, he was able to get the name and address of the individual who had sold the wholesaler the statuette.

  Augustus was surprised to learn it was a woman, and a Turkish woman at that. He wrote her a short note.

  Dear Mrs. Zehra Hanzade,

  Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Augustus Wall, antiquities dealer, lately of Alexandria. I recently purchased an ebony statuette of Horus from Abdul Rahman, and I must commend you on the brilliance of the forgery. It is exact in virtually all particulars to the statuette excavated by Pierre Dupris in his spring field season of 1918. I am curious as to why you would make the damage to the figure in different spots than the original. Considering that it is otherwise all but identical, such an obvious mistake must have been deliberate, and I am curious as to why it was done.

  Please rest assured that I will not expose you. In fact, I might become a regular customer of your brilliantly executed knockoffs. Please contact me at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss terms.

  Kindest regards,

  Sir Augustus Wall

  ***

  Madame’s earliest convenience turned out to be the very next day. A liveried Circassian servant came to the house on Ibn al-Nafis Street and delivered Zehra Hanzade’s business card embossed in gold. It gave her address in French, Turkish, Arabic, and English in that order. The servant informed him that he would be welcome any time after lunch. Augustus gave him a generous tip and told him to inform the lady that he would be there at five.

  The Hanzade mansion stood on a leafy side street lined with French colonial homes half hidden by tall walls enclosing lush gardens. Only the upper balconies and treetops were visible above the line of gleaming brass spikes protecting the top of the wall from intruders. A Turkish servant showed him in and led him through a marble front hall adorned with Classical statues. After passing along a corridor lined with tastefully selected French and Dutch landscapes, they entered a sitting room.

  Zehra Hanzade was a curvaceous Turkish beauty of middle age, dressed in a loose green caftan embroidered in gold thread. She had olive skin, a heart-shaped face framed by flowing black ringlets, and the most lustrous eyes Augustus had ever seen. Gold bangles clattered on her wrists as she rose to shake his hand. Her fingers sparkled with a small fortune in gemstones. She greeted Augustus with perfect French and did neither of the two things that new acquaintances almost invariably did to anger him—she neither avoided looking at his mask nor stared at it. Instead her soft brown eyes took it in with a mixture of regret and acceptance and then moved to meet his eye.

  Sir Thomas Russell, for all his annoying traits, was the only other person he’d met in Cairo who had passed that particular test. When Russell had first met Augustus, he’d looked at his mask without trying to hide his doing so and asked, “What regiment?”

  “Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry,” Augustus had replied.

  “I was in the Royal Horse Guards myself, not that we got much riding in that war. A damned cock-up from start to finish. Hated every minute of it.”

  And that had been that.

  His hostess offered him a gilded Louis XIV chair while she reclined opposite him on a divan inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the Ottoman style, kicking off her slippers and curling up on the divan in a manner that was shockingly casual yet completely unaffected. Augustus caught himself staring at her toes, which were perfect, and switched to staring into her eyes, which were equally perfect. Ordinary women in the East did not look a man in the eye, but it was already obvious that this was no ordinary woman.

  “I’ll have my servant bring some tea. Have you had Turkish-style tea?”

  “Many times. I quite enjoy it.”

  “Cigarette?” she offered. “Most English gentlemen prefer Woodbines, isn’t that correct?”

  An unopened packet of the English cigarettes sat on the table between them.

  Augustus thanked her and lit one, while she took a drag from a sheesha standing near the divan. The smell of pungent Turkish tobacco filled the room, almost blotting out the milder scent of the British blend.

  Conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence until tea came. Once the servant had left again, Zehra Hanzade asked, “You are new to Cairo, yes?”

  “I moved here only last month and lived at Shepheard’s Hotel until I could find a house.”

  “Yes, the one on Ibn al-Nafis Street. A perfect example of the kind of Cairene architecture that is sadly no longer being built. If I collected buildings like I collect art, I would have bought it myself. Do your wife and children live here as well?”

  “I never married.”

  “Surely a man of your standing must have had many interested women.”

  “I had a fiancée before the war. After the war, she made her excuses.”

  Zehra Hanzade clucked her tongue. “Then she is unworthy of you.” She took a puff from her sheesha, and the bubbling of the water seemed to emphasize her point.

  Augustus didn’t reply. His hostess treated him to a warm smile. “My husband and I got a great deal of amusement from your letter. You are wonderfully direct for an Englishman. It was almost American in its directness.”

  “Now let’s not get off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Hanzade.”

  She laughed in clear, bright tones that convinced Augustus that he’d like to hear that laugh as often as possible. He tried to ignore the mention of the husband.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to imply you are an American. You are too much a man of the world. And do call me Zehra. I will call you Augustus. That is more suitable between good friends, don’t you think? And I do think we will be wonderful friends.”

  “Whatever you wish, Zehra,” he replied, and meant it.

  “Excellent. That makes me so happy. So may I ask why you wish to buy artifacts you know are forgeries when you have a steady supply of real ones?”

  “To sell to the tourists who are less interested in ancient art than they are in impressing their friends back home. I see no reason why irreplaceable pieces of ancient history should end up in the hands of fools.”

  Zehra laughed again.

  “Ah, an idealist! Only the wealthy can afford to be idealists. I, too, am wealthy, but I never took up the habit.” Zehra gave Augustus a level stare. “I have enough vices.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, cleared his throat, and asked, “Can you make artifacts to order?”

  “Of course. You need to speak with Suleiman, my husband. After you have spoken with him, we will have another tea and discuss terms.”

  Augustus’s hostess clapped her hands to summon a servant, who led him out the back door into a spacious garden enclosed by a high stone wall. The back half of the garden was taken up by a large wooden building. The sound of a chisel on stone echoed from within.

  The servant stopped at the entrance, and Augustus entered through an open sliding door a full eight feet tall.

  The first thing he noticed was a strong smell of burning hemp.

  The second thing he noticed was a treasure trove of Egyptian art. Within the interior, he beheld a collection to match his own—statues and sarcophagi, weapons and amulets. The shed contained every kind of artifact imaginable. Some of the statues were almost
monumental in size, explaining why the shed had such a high door. Augustus peered around the dim interior, made dimmer by a haze of pungent smoke.

  At the center of the room stood a thin man of middle age in a simple white jellaba and skullcap, whose features showed a mixture of Turkish and Egyptian ancestry. He was using a small chisel to finish the cartouche on a three-foot alabaster statue of Ramesses V sitting on a stone pedestal.

  “Well done,” Augustus said. “If I hadn’t seen you carving it, I would have sworn it was genuine XX Dynasty.”

  Suleiman turned and fixed a pair of bloodshot eyes on him. He bowed and put his hand to his heart.

  “You must be the Englishman. My wife said to expect you. She says you are a connoisseur of art? Then you are a man after my own heart, for I am an artist.”

  “You are indeed,” Augustus replied, stepping farther into the shed and looking around.

  “Welcome to my humble studio. If you see anything you like, I will give you a very good price.”

  “This is very nice,” Wall said, running a hand along the alabaster statue of the pharaoh Suleiman was working on.

  “This is not for sale yet. It’s not finished.”

  With that, Suleiman pushed it off the pedestal. It landed on the stone floor with a crash. Augustus leaped back. Suleiman picked up a sledgehammer and started hitting it as hard as he could.

  “What are you doing?” Augustus shouted.

  “I am making it very old.”

  “Stop! Why are you destroying a work of art?” Augustus demanded as a piece of the shoulder cracked off and clattered several feet across the floor. Several smaller chips flew off too, one stinging Augustus’s hand as it struck him.

  “What is the purpose of art if not to make money?” Suleiman asked as he swung the sledgehammer down again. “If it is in perfect condition, no one will believe it is ancient.”

  Suleiman mopped his brow and dropped the sledgehammer with a thud. The statue at his feet was now marked with several cracks and chips.

  “Next I need to rub it with sand for some hours to abrade the surface, especially where I broke it. That way it will look like it has been in the desert for a long time,” Suleiman said with obvious pride.

  Augustus shook his head. “It seems a shame.”

  “There is no shame in creating a perfect forgery. Everyone is happy. My family and I get our money, the dealers like you get your money, and someone thinks they have purchased a piece of history.”

  “Unless someone figures out you’re passing fakes.”

  Suleiman went over to a corner where a lit hookah stood in front of a stool. He set out a second stool.

  “Please join me for a smoke. No? It is better than alcohol, which the Holy Koran forbids.”

  “I seem to recall a passage in the Koran forbidding deception.”

  Suleiman shook his head and took a toke from the hookah. “I never say that something is ancient. I only say that it is a statue of Ramesses or a faience ushabti in the style of the New Kingdom. I never say it is actually old.”

  Augustus decided not to argue the point. “Aren’t you worried that people will discover your secret like I have?”

  “You are the first,” Suleiman said, then took a puff of his hookah. The water pipe bubbled.

  “Well, I have to admit that was sheer bad luck on your part. You imitated an artifact discovered by Pierre Dupris last year.”

  Suleiman nodded. “One of my assistants works as one of his laborers. I visited him, posing as his brother, and was present when the statuette was discovered. A most excellent piece.”

  “You slipped, though. You put the chips and cracks in the wrong place.”

  Suleiman took another puff of his hookah and replied, “I did nothing of the kind. I have a pattern for how I damage my work so that I can always tell if a piece was made by my own hand or if it is genuine. Otherwise I might fool even myself.”

  “If I hadn’t seen you at work, I would have thought that a boast. But since I have seen, I can only congratulate you on your artistry,” Augustus said with a laugh. The smoke was making him feel light-headed.

  Suleiman beamed a smile. “Most kind of you to say so. Sir Wall, I think we shall do some wonderful business together.”

  ***

  Faisal crept along the narrow space behind the market stalls, ignoring the rotting produce that squished under his hands and knees. He was almost there. A sack of flour leaned against the wall out of sight behind a heap of others. The shopkeeper wouldn’t know it was gone until he cleaned up for the night.

  The boy licked his lips in anticipation. He’d keep half to make into flatbread tonight on a hot plate over an open fire, and the other half he would sell so he could buy some sugar cane.

  A strong hand grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. At first he thought the shopkeeper had caught him, but then he discovered it was someone else.

  Someone far worse.

  Hassan hauled him into a doorway. Passersby glanced in their direction and continued on, suddenly eager to mind their own business.

  The street thug gave Faisal a slap upside the head.

  “You warned him, you little goat turd!”

  “I didn’t know it was you!”

  “Liar! I should cut you open and hang you with your own entrails.”

  Hassan pulled out a knife and gave Faisal a wicked grin.

  “You didn’t think I had another knife, did you? I have lots of knives, enough to cut you into mincemeat.”

  Hassan moved so he blocked Faisal from view of the street and lowered the blade.

  “I told him about your cousins. I saved your life!” Faisal pleaded.

  Hassan’s hand went up to the bandage on his shoulder. “I will kill him for insulting me, but first I want to see what’s in his house. You must get me inside if you want to live.”

  “How?”

  “Think of a way,” Hassan said, shoving the boy again so he jammed his back against the doorknob. Faisal hissed in pain. “Pretend to be his friend. You warned him about the attack, after all, you stupid little bastard.”

  “I am not a bastard.”

  Hassan laughed. “Oh, you think your mother and father were married? Your father was a drunk, and your mother was a whore.”

  “She was not!” Faisal wailed.

  “Shut up. Get inside that house somehow.”

  “No.”

  Hassan grabbed him by the neck.

  “I mean, I can’t!” Faisal managed to choke out. “He’ll never let me in.”

  Hassan considered. “No, I suppose not. Why would he want you in there dirtying up his nice clean European house with your dirty little goat turd feet? You’ll have to sneak in. You can do that. Despite being a stupid little bastard, you are a good housebreaker. You are good climber and can fit through places others can’t. I know you’ve done it before, so don’t pretend you haven’t.”

  “What if there’s no way in?”

  “There is. When the house was still empty, we got onto the roof. I knew the day would come when the house would be occupied again, and I wanted to know how to get in. There’s a window slat that you can fit through. If you go to the alley behind the house, you can climb up a drain that takes you to the roof.”

  “It’s three stories high!”

  “Climb that drainpipe or I’ll slit your useless little throat. I noticed he has no womenfolk. He doesn’t even have any servants. It will be easy to break in when he is out. No, wait. I have a better plan. You sneak in late at night when he is sleeping and open the door for us. Then we will enter, kill him quietly, and take whatever we find.”

  Faisal hesitated, looked at the keen edge of Hassan’s knife, and gulped.

  “When do you want me to go in?”

  “Tonight, after the neighborhood watchman passes by calling midnight. We’ll be waiting and watching the front door. Now get out of my sight.”

  Hassan shoved Faisal into the street. The boy turned around.

  “My mother
was not a whore! She was an honorable woman who died giving birth to me!”

  Hassan laughed. “Is that what your drunkard of a father told you? What a joke! She was a whore who left you as soon as she dropped you in the dust. Everyone got a taste of her. I was smaller than you, and even I got a taste!”

  “That’s not true!” Faisal shouted, and started to cry.

  “Aw, look at the little whore’s son crying like a baby!” Hassan’s words rang in Faisal’s ears as he ran off. “Don’t forget our appointment tonight, or I’ll be selling your meat to the butcher in the morning!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The visitor came unannounced, and he came after hours. Augustus had just let Moustafa off for the night when he heard a knock on the door. Thinking his new employee had forgotten something, he answered.

  Instead of the hulking Soudanese, he faced a small, slender European. The man had a deeply lined face, bright blue eyes, and full lips. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties, pale and somewhat sickly. The man wore a fine suit and cravat. A gold ring with a Roman intaglio adorned his finger, and his cuff links were of purest ebony. Augustus noticed a lump in the side pocket that looked suspiciously like a gun. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Augustus’s mask. Then he remembered his manners, bowed politely, and did not look Augustus in the face again.

  “How may I help you?” the antiquities dealer asked stiffly.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said in English with a German accent, “My name is Dieter Neumann, a collector of antiquities. I know of your reputation in Alexandria and was overjoyed to hear you have moved your business to Cairo. I am most anxious to see your collection.”

  “How did you find me? We aren’t open for business yet.”

  Herr Neumann inclined his head as if he expected this question.

  “The circle of reputable antiquities dealers is a small one, Sir Wall. News travels quickly. I apologize for not waiting until your grand opening, but I am a most selective collector and wanted to see your stock before the general public is allowed in.”

  Augustus considered for a moment, then opened the door farther and invited the German inside.