The Pyramid Prophecy

by Caroline Vermalle

  Florence whistled in admiration.

  “But amongst industry insiders, another rumor did the rounds, with even more fervor: that the owner of the vase was none other than Oxan Aslanian, and it was he who had staged the deaths. And perhaps, it was not only animals that had been sacrificed. The vase was fake, but the ashes were real and human… You get my gist.” He smiled. “In rooms such as this, the name Oxan Aslanian, the Younger that is, is often bound together with stories of unsolved murders, cruelty and retaliation. And is, at its essence, rooted in the spectacular and the mysterious. Charming, isn’t it?”

  “My dear Yohannes, only you could admire such a crook!”

  Florence turned to the source of the interruption and found herself in front of the man she recognized immediately from her visit to DeBok’s shop in Cairo. A fairly short man of the same age, with round tortoiseshell glasses distorting eyes alive with curiosity. His smile was slightly haughty, but he seemed perfectly ready to humor his friend.

  “Miss Florence Mornay, this is Mr. Helmut von Wär,” DeBok’s introduction was weary and tinged with impatience. “Mr. von Wär is Lichtenstein's ambassador to the United States.”

  “Mornay,” the ambassador said with a furrowed brow, drawing out the final vowel as he tried to place the name. “Not of the family of Vivant Mornay, Lord Falmouth, surely?”

  “Yes, the same,” Florence replied cautiously.

  Helmut von Wär shook her hand warmly. “It's an honor, Miss. Your ancestor was a great man. Tell me, do you live in Falmouth Manor?”

  “It’s my father's house, but I still spend a few weekends there when I can.”

  “Splendid, splendid!”

  Von Wär proceeded to drill Florence with a torrent of questions about her ancestors, the estate and its collection of antiques. DeBok slipped away, and Florence immediately began to plot her escape from the garrulous diplomat, but Helmut von Wär proved as tenacious as he was dull. Once he had finished interrogating Florence, he began to expound on the foundation he had created for the safeguarding of archeological treasures all over the world. When he started to name the seemingly endless list of museums with which his foundation was in partnership, Florence discreetly searched the crowd, wondering what had become of the enigmatic Mr di Blumagia.

  She soon found him: he was still with the woman in the silver dress. They had just been joined by Yohannes DeBok.

  As Florence looked on, Di Blumagia introduced the other two, but something in the shifting of his posture indicated something that Florence thought at odds with what she had seen of him so far. He seemed nervous. At that moment, she felt, rather than heard, that von Wär had stopped speaking. She saw him looking at her as if waiting for an answer.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked, distractedly.

  “I asked you if you were interested in the purchase of Nefertiti,” said von Wär.

  “Oh, no, no. I work for the BBC, we are making a documentary.”

  “Ah,” the diplomat said, cooly. “Of course, the controversy with Al-Shamy and the repatriation of Nefertiti would be of interest to the media. I am sure I don’t need to tell a descendent of the great Vivant Mornay that the cultural treasure of ancient Egypt belongs to the history of all humanity, not to modern Egypt alone. If the Egyptians protect their antiques at all and express any interest beyond that which brings money from tourists, it is thanks only to the influence of Europeans since the eighteenth century.” The rotund ambassador honed in on his cause, “And while the major western museums can properly protect these treasures, the institutions in emerging countries, such as Egypt, are constantly under threat. Look what happened during the looting of the Egyptian Museum. Al-Shamy claims Tutankhamen's mask was not touched, but I have my doubts.”

  “Really?” Florence asked, quite taken aback.

  Von Wär tutted impatiently, as if the subject was never in any doubt. “Of course, I have no evidence, and we cannot judge simply based on rumors, but…” He paused and looked at Florence in a conspiratorial way, as if to ensure his silence carried the desired meaning. “That's why our foundation is so important. If Tutankhamen's mask was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, for example, it would be both safer and would reach a larger audience.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew an ivory colored business card, embossed with black ink that glistened like traces of polished oil. “I'll leave you my card, should the BBC ever want to make a documentary about the work being done by our Foundation. Personally, I have a passion for Ancient Egypt.”

  Florence accepted the card and, without thinking, added, “Then you must have enjoyed Mr. DeBok’s collection in Cairo in June before he closed his gallery?”

  The friendly smile on von Wär’s face froze, “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. DeBok’s gallery in Cairo, I saw you there in June?”

  The smile disappeared from the diplomat’s face, along with any of the remaining color. “I’m afraid you are mistaken. I have not been to Cairo for years,” he said in a tone that did not brook any debate.

  “Oh, sorry,” Florence stumbled, trying to think of something to say. “The champagne is terrible for my memory,” she said forcing a chuckle as she held up her empty glass, but now it was von Wär who seemed to be looking to get away.

  “It was a pleasure, Miss Mornay,” he said perfunctorily as he scuttled away through the crowd of guests.

  Florence looked down at the business card that she still held in her hand.

  * * *

  Helmut von Wär

  President

  HUMANITAS Foundation

  New York

  * * *

  HUMANITAS. She had already heard of the foundation, but in a context that, for the moment, she could not quite place. In any case, there was no way this monumental bore could ever be on prime time television.

  DeBok was still talking to the handsome couple. It was obvious he would not be telling her anything more about Nefertiti. Suddenly aware of her aching feet in high-heeled shoes, she scanned the room for someone worth speaking to, found none. The evening had been a waste of time – she would have been better off at her hotel, planning her trip to Cairo in two days’ time.

  Frustrated and cursing against her heels, she went out into the street, tossed Helmut von Wär's card into a nearby trashcan and hailed a passing taxi. Once inside, she kicked off her shoes, sighed with relief and whipped out her smartphone.

  “Now, Google. Tell me all about the enigmatic Mr di Blumagia.”

  49

  “I am Sixtine.”

  “What a charming name. Yohannes De Bok,” the dealer said, bowing slightly as he kissed her hand, “Are you interested in antiquities?”

  Sixtine scanned the scattered fragments of her memory for anything that matched the figure now standing before her. She found nothing and was instantly delighted by his old-fashioned charm. “Yes, but only recently. I’ve been told you have a boutique in Mexico?”

  “That’s right. My job makes me travel to the four corners of the world, and yet, it is in DF that I feel the most at home. How did you know?”

  “Carlos Moctezuma of the Museum of Anthropology. He gave me a personal tour so that I could admire the red quetzal feather headdress.”

  “Oh yes,” DeBok said, nodding in recognition. “The headdress of Nezahualcóyotl.”

  DeBok embarked on a lengthy description of the artifact, but Sixtine had trouble concentrating; Thaddeus, standing at her side, and usually so composed, was unsettled. He appeared preoccupied with a stocky and jovial man talking to a pink-haired girl. She had seen the girl staring at them too. She interrogated her broken mind: was this woman familiar, or just intriguing?

  “If one day you come back to DF,” DeBok said, “it would be a pleasure to have you over for dinner.”

  Sixtine was about to answer when Thaddeus interrupted, gently but firmly grabbing her elbow. “Sorry, Yohannes, but I have to steal Sixtine away.”

  “Of course,” DeBok said, “you have so many people to mee
t. The world of collectors is fascinating, and ultimately quite small. I hope to see you again, Sixtine.”

  Thaddeus led her away to the other end of the reception room. His jaw was still clenched.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sixtine, on the defensive.

  “You shouldn’t have come here. This is not the right time or the right place.”

  “Please don’t tell me you are trying to protect me, that would be insulting.”

  They locked eyes. She felt their closeness grow with each second spent together. She hadn’t known he would come to Paris and yet something inside her expected it. But as everything else was getting murkier, she still didn’t know where he fit. Friend or foe, brother or savior, saint or sinner, Thaddeus remained a puzzle. His mere presence guided her away from the plans she had carefully drawn.

  Suddenly, the light dimmed in the reception room. Immediately, she heard the sound of the Green River. The great underground torrent foamed in the flowing champagne. The cries of the baboon echoed through the hall, and Sixtine froze, anguish stuck in her throat.

  As if he had heard the storm in her head, Thaddeus took her by the arm and slipped between the guests. Sixtine’s instinct was to fight back, to regain clarity, to stay where in this reception room where her purpose lay; but the Green River was raging in her head, the banks populated one by one by jurors and gods with animal heads. Of the two wars she had to wage, the one here and now and the one in the underworld opening up in her mind, the fiercest had to be by the Green River.

  With Thaddeus by her side, paralyzed by terror yet still moving, she desperately sought light, bright and clear, like one seeks oxygen coming in from the deep. A few seconds later she found herself under the blueish neon lights of an industrial kitchen, and was able to breathe again. The shrieks of the baboon subsided, the Green River’s current was no longer tugging at her chest, and the gods with animal heads had retreated in the shadows of the present.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Thaddeus said, his face taut by concern.

  Sixtine caught her breath, raising her face towards the neon.

  “They are recalling me.”

  “What?”

  “The Green River. That’s where I belong.” Sixtine was not addressing Thaddeus. She was talking to herself, drinking in what she had just realized. “That’s where I belong,” she repeated in a whisper, as if to get used to it.

  She turned to him. Her emerald eyes were shining so bright, so deep, they colored the palette of chrome, black and blue in the kitchen. Her gray hair, her silver dress, her pale face: they came fiercely alive with the green aura of her gaze.

  Thaddeus remained motionless, intensely focused on her. There was no impatience in his demeanor, no judgment, no avoidance. He was just there, watching her, the silent witness of her turmoil.

  At that very moment, she felt he understood her wholly and absolutely. Yet something in her still had to fight him.

  “You’re wrong, Thaddeus. It is the right time, and the right place. I am meant to be here. I know it. Now let me do what I have to do.”

  He moved; a tiny, disorderly jerk. His eyes darted towards the door, slightly ajar. A second later, a rather cheerful voice reverberated against the chrome surfaces of the kitchen; a disembodied voice, in long scholarly sentences, rendered unintelligible by the echo.

  “Then go now,” Thaddeus ordered.

  He opened a back door onto the street. She rushed out; the last thing she felt was his hand, like a guide, on her bare back. But he didn’t follow her. She heard the door close, and his steps rushing towards where the voice had been.

  50

  The Scultore stroked his beard and narrowed his eyes.

  He said nothing but his breathing was heavy, labored. Franklin stood next to him, examining each of his gestures and every line of his face. He had called the forger the day before, before leaving Mexico City. The old man had had to cross half of Egypt in his grandson's wreck of a car, and yet, he had arrived on time. And so it was that he had come to stand, silently massaging his chin at the Egyptian Museum, in front of the funerary mask of Tutankhamen.

  The Scultore walked to the rear of the display case and bent over, looking up to the inside of the mask like an old man looking up a young woman’s dress. Franklin had to restrain himself from blurting out, “So, Scultore? Is it true?”, but he knew that the inspection had to remain objective so that the final verdict would be unimpeachable.

  After all, before them was the key to the murder of two people.

  There was no doubt that Tutankhamen's real mask had been found in the pyramid, and then transferred to the police evidence room. Whichever way one looked at it, the disappearance of the mask during the fire at the police station was not merely an opportunistic theft, some unfortunate collateral damage; it was the very reason for the attack in the first place. Those who possessed the mask were therefore at least partly responsible for the murder of a policeman and of Moswen. The verdict of the Scultore was crucial.

  “It's the real one,” the Scultore announced. “And we’ve got the smoking gun too. Come, Mr. Hunter, let me show you.” He pointed to the inside of the mask. “There, towards the edge. Look. Resin. That's what they used to disguise it, I’m sure of it. They cleaned it well, but it's the real one, on that I am willing to stake the name of Scultore.”

  Franklin looked furtively around him as the two men hurried out of the museum. The detective thanked the forger for his services and bade him goodbye. He followed the old car through the maze of streets towards Tahrir Square. He was coming to the end of his investigation, but instead of triumph, he felt exhausted.

  Al-Shamy must have ordered the assault on the police station to recover the original, and had caused the death of his deputy to shut him up about the murder of Seth Pryce. Thanks to the Scultore, Franklin now held the proof that Al-Shamy had blood on his hands, at least Moswen’s, and likely Pryce’s too.

  Yet, Franklin found in this revelation neither relief nor solace.

  When he returned to his apartment in Cairo, he found the brand new suitcase full of the clothes Sixtine had bought for him. He had left behind the opulent comfort of Mexico City, the room service on silver trays and the silky soft carpet under his feet. But here, he felt at home. If he didn’t quite feel good, at least he felt like his old self, and that brought him a fleeting comfort. He sat down on the rickety chair near the kitchen table and started writing a message to Sixtine.

  His eyes were closing with exhaustion, so he skipped the details of his meeting with the Scultore for now; there would be time to write a longer message. He just wrote one line.

  “Al-Shamy guilty. More soon.”

  Then he padded across the room and allowed himself to collapse onto the bed, falling into a deep, bone-weary sleep.

  It was late when he woke. Stumbling through the haze of half-sleep and jet-lag, he took a karkadé from his refrigerator and sat down again in front of his computer to finish the note to Sixtine. But first, he noticed the small stack of mail that his landlord had left for him and started by opening a brown envelope that bore only his name but no address. It must have been hand delivered.

  When he lifted the flap, he recognized the scent immediately: oud and cinnamon – Zahara. He saw that there was a second, identical envelope in the stack.

  He read the first greedily. The message was curt and only asked him to visit her on his return. In the second envelope, she gave him the names of Moswen's associates and indicated where to find them. Neither of the letters bore a date. Franklin's apartment seemed to spin; he was hypnotized by the scent emanating from the pages as much as by the revelations on them.

  A few minutes later, he was once again behind the wheel of the Citation, weaving through the traffic that choked the highway to Zahara's house. He had thought of paying a visit to Moswen's associates first, but the perfumed letters had awakened a desire too long suppressed. The traffic slowed his progress, and he was aware of the impatience that coursed through hi
m, causing him to honk in unison with the other Cairotes on the road.

  At last, he arrived in Zahara’s street. But as he approached the building, his heart stopped.

  Where the small block of apartments should have been, there was nothing but ashes. He climbed out of his car as if in a trance. The police had surrounded the property and were making half-hearted efforts to disperse the curious onlookers that had gathered around its perimeter, all straining to get a look at the destruction.

  Franklin saw the body as it was brought through the charred doorway. It was almost wholly concealed under a white sheet, except one exquisite ankle, adorned by a gold chain.

  His phone rang – it was Mohammed, his landlord. He was barely coherent in amongst the bangs and shouts that crowded out his voice at the end of the line.

  The police were tearing his apartment to pieces and had an arrest warrant against him. They claimed he had killed a high-class prostitute.

  A woman called Zahara.

  51

  “You’ll never guess who I spoke to last night.”

  Florence's voice cracked in the cell phone pressed against Max's shoulder as he leaned against one of his crutches.

  “Probably not,” Max said, responding to the salacious lilt of her voice.

  “Thaddeus di Blumagia,” Florence said, with all the melodrama of an afternoon soap opera. “Seth Pryce's best friend, handsome, aloof and fabulously rich, if you believe the tabloids.”