“Yes. Miss Radcliff used to show the real heart to guests. But after a couple of incidents in which robbers stole from private collections like ours, I convinced her to have reproductions of the most valuable and irreplaceable pieces created for public display, while the real pieces were kept in a vault.”
Reproductions were common among private collectors for the reason Fuad stated and for insurance coverage. With artwork selling commonly in the tens of millions, and even more than a hundred million for a single item sometimes, the cost of insuring the “priceless” was enormous.
Most collectors would have loaned their pieces to museums for safekeeping and to let other people enjoy them, but altruism didn’t appear to run in the Radcliff family.
“How many reproductions of the scarab were made?” I asked.
“From the original only this one, but there are many other copies in existence. You can buy them at any marketplace in Egypt, but they are tourist junk, with the appearance based upon conjecture because there are no public photos of the heart.”
“No photos were taken back when Carter opened Tut’s tomb?”
“There is a story that the heart was photographed, as were other items, but the pictures of items that never made their way to the Egyptian Museum were destroyed by the men who helped themselves to what they called mere tokens of the greatest archaeological find in history.”
Photos of that era would have been black-and-white and of poor quality compared to the ones today. They would also have been evidence that the heart existed and was missing.
“Who made this replica?”
“A firm in Bath run by a gentleman with a rather colorful history. He was once imprisoned for counterfeiting a van Gogh that sold for millions. When he got out of prison, he turned his talents to making reproductions for legitimate purposes.”
“Well, at least he put his talent to good use. Can I take this copy with me to compare it with the scarab presented as the original?”
“I’m afraid not. Miss Radcliff wishes to keep it here in the collection. She plans to show it to her friends after the heart is returned and a great deal of publicity is generated … to prove she had given up the original for the sake of the Egyptian people.”
He didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.
“Did the counterfeiter take pictures of the heart?”
“Yes, those are the ones I mentioned. He never had the heart in his workshop. He examined it here under my supervision several times and took pictures to use when he needed to.”
“Good. I’m sure he would’ve taken really high-quality pictures. I’ll need them. They should show the pattern of the gold dusting well enough to distinguish the original from a copy.”
“I will call and have them sent over.”
“I’d rather pick them up myself in Bath,” I said. “It’ll give me an excuse to have scones with clotted cream at the Roman baths.”
I also wanted an excuse to talk to the counterfeiter. Fuad saw the scarab with a professional eye, but not even the best curator saw artifacts with the penetrating vision of an artistic counterfeiter. I wanted to make sure that Fuad was right and that only one perfect copy existed of the heart.
He showed me other scarabs in a glass case. I got the impression he was stalling for time as he gathered his thoughts. He stared down at the pieces in the case as he spoke.
“The heart belongs to my people,” he said.
“True. And you have a good chance of getting it back. The thieves can’t sell a well-known work of art. Their only hope is to ransom it and that’s why I was retained—to make sure the scarab is the genuine article.”
“I know that you once fought to get a looted artifact back to the people of Iraq. Will you do the same with the Heart of Egypt?”
“That’s my intention. I wouldn’t have taken this assignment if I thought it would end up anywhere but where it belongs.”
I had the feeling he wanted to tell me something. He started to speak and stopped as we heard the door in the other room open.
“Would you like to join me for lunch and continue our discussion?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, I am tied up here for the rest of the day.” He gently put his hand on my arm. “Will you be in the area tomorrow evening?”
“I think so.”
“There’s a Druid fair near Stonehenge. Fatima and I used to go to it every year. We stand at the medieval tower overlooking the grounds and watch the people from above. Perhaps then we can talk some more.”
“What time shall I meet you?”
“After dark,” he said.
So we wouldn’t be seen?
28
I took the train to Bath, less than an hour’s run, half expecting Rafi al Din, the Egyptian antiquities cop, to sit down across from me, but he didn’t appear, much to my surprise. However, my gut told me he was still around … and not very far from me.
I tried calling Michelangelo to find out if he had any more information about the subway tape but he didn’t pick up, so I left a message asking him if he was avoiding me.
Before heading out to see the counterfeiter, I checked into a small hotel and then paid a visit to one of my favorite places in Britain—the Roman ruins.
Aquae Sulis, the waters of Sulis, is what the Romans called the hot springs at Bath. Finding Britain’s weather cold and damp, the conquerors from sunny Italy built a spectacular spa on the spot, the only thermal springs in the country. Though much abused and neglected over most of the last couple thousand years, the baths have now been restored.
The ruins come not only with history, but a place to have scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, good British tea, and gentle music from violins and bass to listen to.
I was enjoying the music and scones when I got a jarring note—in the form of a chit, a rather old-fashioned way to convey a message.
The waiter handed me a scribbled note that read: “May I join you?”
“It’s from the gentleman in the leather jacket,” the waiter said, pointing to Rafi al Din, sitting in a corner behind me. He must have arrived after I had.
I smiled and nodded.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
“Much better than a text message that sounds like it was composed by a nine-year-old computer geek. Actually, I expected to see you on the train.”
“I had to do some business in Bath.”
“And purely by chance ran into me here?”
He leaned forward and spoke in a faux-whisper. “I knew you were here because I’m a detective.”
“So you talked to Fuad, who told you I’d come here. Which means you know I’m here to see the man who made a reproduction of the scarab.”
It didn’t surprise me that the Radcliff curator would cooperate, even secretly, with his homeland’s antiquities department.
He shook his head. “Maddy, it’s difficult for me to do my detecting if you are always one step ahead of me.”
“I doubt that. What do you know about the counterfeiter? Fuad said he spent time in prison for fraud.”
“That is about the extent of my knowledge, also. He makes copies for rich people so they can hide their originals from thieves. I’m sure it makes their insurance companies happy.”
“Did your government ever attempt to buy the scarab from Isis?”
“We don’t pay ransom. We requested the return of the stolen artifact on many occasions. There may have been some discussion about compensating the Radcliff family even though it had been stolen.”
“In the antiquity trade,” I said, “the word ‘stolen’ has different connotations than it does elsewhere. From Sir Jacob Radcliff’s point of view and the others who spent years financing excavations in Egypt, your government violated their rights when it changed the terms of their agreement after the biggest find in history was made.
“I’m sure you know that almost immediately after the treasure was discovered, Carter and his colleagues became embroiled in a controversy with the
government over division of the artifacts.”
“We obviously have a different view of what occurred,” he said. “By the terms of the concession agreement signed with Carter’s group, if the tomb was found to be intact, my government could deny the excavators a share of the objects recovered. And since King Tutankhamen’s tomb was in fact intact, that gave us the right to void the contract.
“Even though that was the position my government took, a large amount of money was paid to reimburse the concessionaires.”
“An amount that didn’t equal a fraction of the value of the find,” I replied.
He was about to rebut my opinion but I didn’t give him the chance to respond. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that Egypt kept most of the King Tut treasures. I’m just pointing out that it wasn’t a case of greedy exploiters trying to get something they had no right to.”
Rafi shrugged. “The dilemma in my country has always been the choice between bread and history. Every dollar spent on finding and preserving our antiquities is food out of the mouths of our people. That was how it was in the past and how it is even now—the majority of my people have little but the dirt between their toes while a small group of the rich live like kings.”
“Unfortunately, that describes most of the third world.”
Even as I said it, it occurred to me that “third world” is really a term that should be forgotten. Wide-scale travel and the Internet has made it one world.
“We can’t afford to spend hundreds of millions of dollars ransoming antiquities from museums and collectors,” he said. “Right now, besides the Heart of Egypt, the Supreme Council is demanding back the bust of Nefertiti from the Berlin Museum, the Rosetta Stone from the British Museum, and the Dendera Zodiac from the Louvre. Plus hundreds more around the world.
“Those are some of the greatest historical treasures in existence, but the scarab also has great political significance. It was discovered during a time when nationalism was rising in an attempt to throw off British dominance. Its disappearance has become a symbol of my country’s loss of its heritage and political power.”
Kaseem had essentially told me the same thing. I would have dropped Kaseem’s name on him to learn what he knew about the man, but didn’t dare betray the trust until I knew for sure that Kaseem had lied to me.
“I told you that the Supreme Council has tried on a number of occasions to get Isis, and other family members before her, to return the scarab to Egypt. Not willing to give up possession of one of the world’s most precious relics, the family always turned a deaf ear to the request.”
“Perhaps you should have tried another line of persuasion.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Like telling her it was cursed?”
Something else he had learned from the curator.
“Someone beat you to that one, but since she’s so superstitious you might have wrestled it from her if you told her you’d throw a curse tablet into the waters at Bath.”
“A curse tablet?”
“A thin piece of metal with a curse scratched on it, usually asking the gods to damn an enemy. Archaeologists found a number of them here at the baths, but they were found all over the Greco-Roman world.”
“I’ll try to remember that when my supervisor fails to give me the promotion I deserve.”
“Who do you think stole the scarab from Fatima?” I asked, not expecting an honest answer from him.
“If I knew, I would not be here begging for your help.”
Begging? I tried to keep from laughing. It was more threats than pleas.
“Okay … but you must have a theory,” I said.
“A gang of professional thieves? Colombian drug gangs have discovered that art is a type of international currency they can use to launder money with. How about an inside job? Perhaps the mummy itself returned for its heart. I will find out if Tutankhamen left his sarcophagus at the museum.”
“You know, Rafi, I was just beginning to warm up to you, but here you go again, reverting to cop talk and jokes to avoid disclosing anything. As long as your notion of sharing information is for me to tell you everything I know and you to tell me nothing, you can direct your questions in the future to the mummy.”
I got up and he rose with me.
“Maddy, I told you we don’t pay ransom. But we do pay finder’s fees.”
“How much do you pay?”
“That wouldn’t be my decision. But I suspect that my superiors would not be adverse to paying a reasonable reward if the scarab was found and turned over to us. Did you have a figure in mind?”
“Not really. Besides, getting involved with thieves of an antiquity would make me lose my self-respect.” I didn’t add, however, that if Kaseem ended up cheating me out of my fee, I would not hesitate to get compensation from the Egyptian government.
“Rafi, I know you’re just trying to do your job. Frankly, it would be a lot easier for you if you believed me. You think I know more than I’m letting on, maybe even that I know where the scarab is, but you’re wrong, I don’t. If by some miracle I came into possession of it, I would send it back to Egypt. Is that good enough to get you to forget I exist?”
“Absolutely. Will you have dinner with me now?”
“No. And you’re lying about getting off my back.”
“Yes, though I’m sure it’s a very lovely back.” He smiled.
I noticed his left earlobe was clipped. It added to his tough look.
“Gunshot?” I asked.
“Hungry rat when I was a kid,” he said.
That piece of information told me that he reached his position through work and not family standing.
He had a scar across his nose. I didn’t dare ask him about that one, but he volunteered when he saw me looking at it.
“Ex-wife,” he said.
We each made an excuse about what we planned to do for the rest of the day and parted, though I at least told the truth about visiting the spa again.
It has always struck me that the universe, Mother Earth, and life seemed to operate in circles, which I guess is why they say what goes around, comes around.
I knew the first time I met Rafi al Din that it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him. I had a feeling as I left to visit the art counterfeiter that Rafi and I would circle around to meet again.
On one level, I didn’t balk at the notion of seeing him again. He was an attractive man.
What always puzzled me about my choice in men was how many bad mistakes I made as I kept spinning around the circle of life, meeting and discarding men.
In my financial condition, I should be offering myself as a foot warmer to a man with a Rolls-Royce limo like Sir Georges-Hamilton rather than a cop who had gotten his ear bitten off by a rat and his nose busted by an ex-wife, who no doubt had adequate provocation.
29
The counterfeiter’s lair was a small, two-story Georgian-era box with decorative plasters on the front and an elaborate cornice capping off the front of the roof. The grayish brown brick building had a weathered patina that showed it was aging with grace even though its appearance as a whole needed a bit of a touch-up.
Curtains on the two windows of the second floor gave me the impression that he lived above his shop, while the large window in front looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Napoleonic Wars.
I suspected he preferred it that way. Dirty windows suited the purpose of a man who worked in a secretive trade. So did the simple tarnished bronze plaque near the front door that quietly read, BOTWELL.
Duplicating rare treasures to protect them from thieves wasn’t exactly the type of business someone advertises to the public at large. Nor would the customer want it known that they had a counterfeit made.
I expected Jeremy Botwell to have grim eyes and a prison pallor. Instead he was tall and lanky with a broad nose, thin blondish hair, and bright rosaceous cheeks. He struck me more as a schoolteacher than the criminal counterfeiter he had once been.
Criminals, of course, ar
e also subject to the theory of law that what goes around, comes around. Which means most are repeat offenders. That made Botwell my chief suspect for masterminding the theft of the Heart of Egypt.
From what I knew about Fatima Sari, in an excited moment she might have told him about the plan to return the scarab to its homeland.
Botwell was dressed as an artisan: khaki pants, brown shirt, tennis shoes, all stained with paints and dyes.
I had arranged for Fuad to give Botwell exactly three minutes’ notice that I would be picking up the photos. When I left the taxi a block from the shop, I called Fuad to tell him to make his call to Botwell.
The procedure had raised Fuad’s eyebrows but he grinned when I told him why: I didn’t want to give Botwell an opportunity to make a copy of the photos before I arrived.
The photos were on a laptop computer that Botwell had brought to the Radcliff museum and that Fuad had seen backed up on a flash drive. It wasn’t a sure thing, but I planned to tell Botwell that Heather Radcliff had insisted that he turn over the photos to me and erase any copies he had.
Botwell had not been happy when upon entering I immediately asked for copies of the pictures and for him to erase all of the other copies while I stood by.
He looked ready to tell me to shove off, but I smiled sweetly and said, “I understand that Heather plans to have you duplicate quite a number of pieces. She just wants to make sure that hers are the only copies in existence.”
The promise of money softened him enough to copy the pictures onto a flash drive that I had brought and then I watched as he erased the pictures off his computer and flash drive as we stood on either side of a wood counter on the first floor of his shop.
He claimed no prints had been made.
Fuad mentioned Botwell had an assistant named Quintin Rees who had helped produce the reproduction of the scarab, but I didn’t see or hear anyone else in the shop as I was talking to Botwell.
“Does Mr. Rees have a copy of the pictures?” I asked.
“No,” he answered immediately. “If that’s all, I need to get back to my work.”
“Actually, Miss Radcliff had a few other questions about the reproduction you made.”
The Curse Page 12