The Curse

by Harold Robbins

  Sir Jacob Radcliff obtained his artifacts by participating in the financing of archaeological digs in countries rich in antiquities and poor in material goods. In countries where artifacts made an eon ago had little meaning to people who grubbed every day for enough to eat, wealthy individuals and museums paid fat fees and fatter bribes for the right to “mine” antiquity sites.

  That Howard Carter had been financed by Lord Carnarvon, Radcliff, and others was well known, but their efforts, leading to the most fabulous find of all—the King Tut treasures—was just one of thousands of times in which people of wealth put up the money to find artifacts and often took half—if not all—of what was found.

  Two famous incidents before the King Tut find were Heinrich Schliemann’s discovery of Troy and Lord Elgin’s Marbles, the incredible collection of marble pieces from the Parthenon and other buildings on the Acropolis in Athens. Those artifacts, probably the greatest left from ancient Greece, now sit in the British Museum in London.

  The process by which Sir Jacob Radcliff built his collection was utilized for a couple of centuries by wealthy foreigners in their efforts to acquire artifacts from Egypt and other poor countries: payments, often in the form of bribes, paid to corrupt officials and at other times to poor governments in need of the funds.

  But wealthy foreigners came late into the game of looting Egypt. The country had been raped and plundered of its antiquities for thousands of years. The Romans did it, the Turks, the French, and the British, with wealthy American, German, and other European museums coming in and taking many prizes even after invading armies and colonial masters had grabbed what they could.

  The Heart of Egypt happened to be one of those pieces.

  However, unlike artifacts that lie in peace still buried in the desert or in museum galleries, the scarab seemed to have a life and spirit of its own. And Fuad feared that the spirit it housed had attracted men even craftier and more devious than robber barons like Sir Jacob Radcliff.

  Although he and Fatima were both trained Egyptologists, neither of them had the personality or the fortitude to deal with the convoluted schemes that have shadowed what should have been the joyous return of the heart scarab to its homeland.

  Fuad, a thin, small-framed, and gentle man, whose reach was confined mostly to his work, had an affection for Fatima that he never expressed to her. Although he was twenty years her senior, his feelings weren’t of a parental nature, but he was too shy and timid to voice them.

  Fatima had a less stable personality. Delicate physically and mentally, she was controlled by her emotions and was quick to cry and to become guilt-stricken when things went bad even if they were not of her doing.

  It was her irrational reaction to the loss of the sacred scarab that worried Faud.

  She didn’t seem to be able to stay coherent when he talked to her. She was an emotional wreck over the scarab, but it went beyond that, as if her mind was fouled by drugs. And he knew she was not a person to so such things.

  Fuad tried phoning her again, but the call went instantly into voice mail, where he left another message. Fatima’s state of mind saddened and frightened him, but he didn’t know which way to turn for help.

  21

  Heathrow Airport, London

  My phone went off as I walked toward a currency exchange kiosk at Heathrow. I didn’t recognize the area code or the number, so that meant it was probably my friend from the Tea Room.

  “I heard what happened,” Mounir Kaseem said.

  “I experienced what happened. A woman first tries to kill me and then dies in front of me and a cop wants to know why I claim she’s a perfect stranger when she has my business card on her.”

  “I know nothing about—”

  “I don’t believe you. She was Egyptian; she was connected to you and your attempt to recover the scarab. As soon as things go to hell, I can’t reach you on the phone.”

  “I’m sorry—you must have tried to call me after I’d gotten rid of the phone when the minutes were up.”

  “All deals are off between us. And you’re not getting a refund. I only came here to find out why that poor woman jumped in front of a train, not to help you.” I hung up on him.

  I did it out of an angry impulse, but it was a good move because I wanted to see how he came back—if he did. Was it going to be with threats or answers?

  My phone rang and I answered with a quick “What?”

  “You’re right. I did know the woman, but I didn’t know that she was in New York or that she would attack you.”

  “I want more than excuses. Tell me about Fatima Sari. Why was she in New York trying to contact me?”

  He was quiet and I let the clock tick.

  “She is … was … unbalanced,” he said. “Fatima was an assistant curator at the Radcliff museum.”

  “Is she the one you said took the scarab?”

  “She volunteered to return it to Egypt as part of the little charade we had devised to keep from tarnishing the Radcliff name. When it was stolen from her, she became irrational.”

  His explanation didn’t make any sense to me. “What do you mean, irrational?”

  I waited out another long pause before he answered.

  “Fatima believed in both the potential greatness of our country and in the power of the magic that has come down from the times of the pharaohs. I’m not referring to silly stories about mummy curses, but what we spoke about at lunch—the powerful effect that a symbol of Egypt’s grand past can have on my people. The loss of the scarab was not a monetary loss to her as it might be for an art dealer or collector. It was an event that stabbed at her very being.”

  “Are you saying she went crazy from guilt?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s a way of putting it. She felt her life was ruined, her career destroyed, and her passionate desire to participate in an event important to her country was taken from her.”

  “Did she take drugs?” I asked.

  “Sadly, yes. I discovered only after the scarab was stolen that she had experiences with narcotics.”

  “Could she have been involved in the theft? As a participant rather than the victim?”

  “I considered that, but I doubt it. She was not the devious type. Perhaps I would know more if we had been able to report the theft to the police. But you can see the problem with that.”

  I could see his point. How would Heather Radcliff report missing something that she denied ever having?

  “But why was Fatima trying to contact me? And kill me?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I suspect she overheard me saying I was going to hire you after I was contacted by the thieves.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Just before I left for New York. In London. She was acting very erratic, unstable. I insisted she consult a doctor and she disappeared. For all I know, she got a flight to New York before mine.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I can understand that she got my name through you, but why would she come to New York and try to kill me just because you were going to hire me to authenticate the stolen piece? From what you told me, she should have been pleased that you were hiring me to help get back the scarab.”

  I got silence for a moment before he answered.

  “She may have overheard a discussion I had and misinterpreted what I was saying.”

  “Which was?”

  “I was telling an associate that you were once … inadvertently involved in the theft of a national treasure.”

  I restrained myself from blowing him off over the phone. Unfortunately, I had been involved—inadvertently—in an infamous incident in which a national treasure of Iraq had been looted.

  “What did you say that made Fatima think I could be involved in the theft of the scarab?” I asked.

  “My associate had suggested that because of your background, you might have knowledge of the scarab incident.”

  “What? That I was one of the thieves?”

  “Please understand,
it was a call in which we were bouncing back and forth different theories and strategies. I had no idea that Fatima would misinterpret what was being said. Obviously, if I thought you were in any way connected with or knew anything about the theft, I would not have hired you to authenticate it.”

  I had to admit that the woman, out of her mind from grief and guilt, could have been suspicious of me after hearing me described as some sort of international art thief.

  “What exactly did Fatima say to you before she jumped in front of the train?” he asked.

  “She mumbled some stuff about curses.”

  I was deliberately vague because I didn’t want him to know how little I really knew. And I didn’t want to tell him I was literally on the run from the police because it would give him leverage over me. I was stuck in the deal because he could open doors for me to get answers, but I also wanted to get a bonus. I figured I was going to need it if I had to hire an attorney when I got back to New York.

  “I regret you had to witness the tragic end to her life,” he said. “You may, of course, keep the retainer I gave you and return home. However, I wish you would consider continuing with our arrangement. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I’m sure poor Fatima would rest better if the scarab was recovered.”

  I had no intention of walking away from the deal. I needed the money now more than ever. But I had to grit my teeth to keep from telling Kaseem that at this point I was more interested in getting information that would clear me with the subway cop than him getting back the scarab. And I still wasn’t completely convinced that Fatima would have reacted so violently when she heard I might be involved in the theft.

  Wouldn’t she have demanded that I give back the scarab rather than trying to stab me to death?

  I shook my head in disgust. I didn’t know what had been going on in that crazy woman’s mind.

  “If you are willing to continue on,” he said, “I will have the next payment for you tomorrow.”

  “I want twice what you promised me. And I want it today, not tomorrow.”

  “I’m not in Britain. I flew back to Paris to take care of another matter. I’ll cross over and meet with you tomorrow afternoon with your payment, double as you have asked. You have earned it many times over. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for you to have the opportunity to examine some pictures and a reproduction of the scarab at the Radcliff museum.”

  I listened quietly as he told me I was to meet an art dealer in Salisbury at the train station.

  After I hung up, my jaws were tight. I was looking for answers and didn’t like the ones I had gotten from Kaseem. Worse, I had the feeling that I was being led around by the nose.

  Money, money, money. That’s what it was all about. Like a dog chasing its tail, I had to run after the money in what was becoming a vicious circle.

  22

  The taxi ride from Heathrow to Waterloo Station took me through a damp, gray, overcast London, with threatening storm clouds that fed my own sense of dread that my feet were sinking deeper into a morass. It was too bad, because London was on my short list of favorite large cities.

  I followed Kaseem’s instructions, catching a train to Salisbury, where he said I would be met by the Radcliff woman’s art consultant. I’d been on the rail line before because stunning relics of antiquity were on its route—Stonehenge and the Roman ruins at Bath.

  I laid my bag on the table with seats facing each other in the hopes that people would think all the seats were occupied. I wasn’t in the mood for any companion.

  I hurried to the lounge car to get a cup of coffee to help my jet lag, hoping my bag would still be there when I returned to my seat.

  When I got back, I checked my smartphone for messages. There was nothing from Michelangelo; only two calls from bill collectors. I ignored those. I planned to send each of them something from my cash hoard when I got home.

  A man sat down across from me and I looked up and did a double take when I realized he was staring at me … not a polite stare but that look a cop gives you when he’s wondering what you’re up to.

  He had a southern Mediterranean olive complexion similar to Kaseem’s, but that didn’t necessarily make him Egyptian because like everywhere else, Britain was multiracial.

  “Say something,” I said, “so I’ll know if you’re a British or an Egyptian cop.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a sign around my neck that identifies me as a policeman?”

  Definitely Egyptian, though he had a British accent underlying his native one, a not uncommon trait for people who learned their English from a Brit.

  “It’s your eyes. You’re trying to look into my head instead of my clothes. At the moment I’d much rather meet a man putting the make on a woman than a cop out for information I don’t have.”

  The smile on his face broke up the stern look of officialdom.

  Good-looking, maybe late thirties, tall, well built, with a few specks of gray in his black hair, he was wearing a stylish black leather jacket, gray slacks, and sunglasses. The boot sticking out into the aisle looked like handcrafted Italian leather.

  I didn’t know what the dress code was for Egyptian policemen, but his clothes showed more good taste than expense. The tip-off was his watch when he reached out to shake my hand.

  The watch wasn’t flashy and had a simple black band rather than the heavy Rolexlike creations that could tell you the time in Timbuktu and the weather on Mars.

  “Rafi al Din,” he said. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stare at you as if you were a piece of incriminating evidence. And I confess that I am intrigued by what is hidden in your mind and under your clothes.”

  Ah, a cop with a sense of humor. And sex appeal. With my luck, he was another Michelangelo who hid his artistic nature behind beer, hot dogs, and sports bars.

  “Let me guess, you’re an Egyptian policeman and you want to talk to me about scarabs?”

  “Amazing. You’re psychic. Does your crystal ball tell you how soon we will become lovers?”

  I liked this man. So far.

  “It’s giving me a warning not to trust a tall, dark, and handsome man who suddenly appears at my table. Perhaps I’ve developed a sense of heightened awareness over the years because police officers seem to take an unhealthy interest in my life.”

  “Perhaps it’s because, as you say in your country, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Apparently the smoke gets in their eyes and they confuse me for the guilty party. The fact that I am not housed in a supermax with serial killers and people who eat people seems to offend their twisted view of an orderly world.”

  He started to say something and I threw up my hands in frustration. “Okay. Enough clever sparring. Who are you? What do you want? And would you mind getting lost?”

  “I am sad to admit that in some ways I am already lost. But I have a card which reminds me who I am.”

  He gave me a business card, English on one side, Arabic on the other. The English side confirmed his name was Rafi al Din and that he was an inspector with the Supreme Council of Antiquities. It showed a Cairo address.

  The SCA was the Egyptian government unit in charge of its antiquity sites and artifacts.

  “Very impressive,” I said, “a card you could stop at any print shop and have knocked out in five minutes. Do you have anything that looks a little more official? A badge? Gun?”

  “Of course.”

  He showed me a picture ID with him in a fancy military-looking police uniform. I couldn’t read Arabic, but I was impressed with the official appearance of the uniform. He looked as sexy in his uniform as he did in the leather jacket.

  “Is your job as an inspector similar to the British version of a police official—a cop that investigates antiquity thefts?”

  “Yes. I have a few questions to—”

  I cut him off. “Before we get to your questions, how did you know I was in Britain, on this train? Better yet, why have you bothered to find out I’m ev
en on the planet?”

  I met his eyes, waiting for answers.

  He leaned back and gave me a quizzical stare. “Are you always this aggressive with policemen?”

  I smiled, as sweet as I could, in spite of being a long way from home, running from the police, and suffering from jet lag.

  “Only the ones who are thousands of miles outside of their jurisdiction.”

  He shrugged. “I could, of course, request assistance from Britain’s Art Theft division…”

  “Why don’t you do that? And in the meantime, go find another seat. The one you’re on is reserved for a human being.”

  He held up his hands. “I surrender.”

  “Too late, I don’t take prisoners. And I’ve been threatened by the best, so please try to be civil.”

  We stared at each other, me exasperated and ready to erupt, him trying to figure out how to approach without getting bitten.

  Never able to stand silence, I spoke first.

  “Look, you obviously want to ask me some questions, I have a few myself. We can either trade or we can talk about the weather. So let’s start with why you’re tracking me.”

  “That should be obvious. Fatima Sari. She was on a watch list we share with Interpol and the FBI. You went on the same list after the incident in the subway station. When you bought a ticket for London in New York, that information was conveyed to me and I got on a plane in Cairo.”

  I nodded. “And within seconds of calling to reserve a train seat after I got into the taxi at Heathrow, the reservation hit the wonderful World Wide Web and you bought a ticket to Salisbury.”

  “We live in a connected world.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful—this digital age bringing us all closer together?”

  “Like your shadow.”

  “A monkey on my back is more like it,” I said.

  That got a chuckle from him. He had nice teeth, very white. And nice lips, full and inviting.

  “I’m sorry I put you through so much trouble,” I said. “Next time just give me a call and I’ll tell you who I’m going to murder next.”