The Amun Chamber Page 7

  “You listened in on—?”

  “Everything, dear lady. How very opportune my being here today, wouldn’t you say? These quaint gatherings of yours often prove very worthwhile, indeed.” He took a step closer, his slanted smile anything but reassuring. “One sometimes acquires the most interesting information—the value of which, I might add, you can scarcely begin to imagine.”

  Edith stared back at him in a kind of hypnotized horror.

  Yet her brain continued to function, her analytical mind still acute. She recalled he was standing beside Nick Travlos when she mentioned an evening meeting with David and Elizabeth. Doubtless, this explained why Oristano left so early. How easy it would be for him to slip unnoticed into her study and plant the bug in her desk, then unlatch the sliding, glass doors for its later retrieval. But knowing how he accomplished this gave her no explanation of his motive.

  The purposeful look on his face was now unmistakable.

  “Is—is it your intention to kill me?” she asked, knowing the answer. Surprising to herself, she felt more anger than fear. She took a step backwards, only to find herself blocked by the desk. Now she saw a pen shaped object in his hand, harmless in appearance, but something she intuitively sensed as deadly. Clasping the front of her flowered dress, he raised the sealed, metal cartridge to her face.

  “No, Sal! You can’t! Murder is—”

  “Oh, not murder,” he said. “Natural causes. You’ll appear to have succumbed to sudden cardiac arrest. And your passing will be quite instantaneous, I assure you. No pain, whatsoever.”

  Perhaps it was the appearance of grim resignation he saw in Edith’s eyes that momentarily deceived Oristano, for her seeming submission gave no warning of the explosive ferocity she suddenly demonstrated in defense of her life. Jerking free of his hand with an agility born of pure desperation, she whipped the handle of her cane wickedly across his temple. Staggered by the unexpected blow, he let the cartridge slip from his hand and roll across the floor. Cursing in rage, he scrambled after it as she bolted for the door.

  She got through it, but very little beyond.

  He overtook her in the hall, roughly forcing her down onto her back. A cold fury burned in his eyes as he straddled her with his knees. Helpless, laboring for each breath, she could only stare up at him as he thrust the metal cylinder into her face.

  Edith barely heard the single click of the trigger propelling the small burst of hydrogen cyanide gas deep into her gasping lungs—and her last conscious thought was that Oristano had lied to her even in this, for the crushing pain in her chest was pure agony.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was late morning of the following day when Oristano boarded his yacht, Medea, anchored outside the narrow entrance of Rhodes’ ancient Madraki Harbor. He’d taken the first available flight out of Salonika’s Mikra Airport to Athens, there catching a smaller Olympic plane to the easternmost big island of modern Greece. And when the medieval bell tower of Fort St. Nicholas pealed the noon hour across the sun-drenched harbor, he was already relaxing inside his spacious stateroom.

  The Medea was a fast motor yacht built to Oristano’s exact specifications by Chiavari Shipyards in his native Italy. Combining speed with the luxury he demanded, the sleek ship’s twin diesel engines produced an admirable capability of 27 knots in smooth seas. As an added feature in the design, the incorporation of expanded fuel tanks extended her refueling range from 500 to 800 nautical miles.

  Standing behind his glass-topped wet bar, he poured a double shot of vodka, taking a quick swallow before adding crushed ice. It was early for a drink, but he hoped to deaden the nagging throb at his temple. A glance at the bar mirror assured him the bruise was scarcely noticeable, the worst of it concealed beneath the length of his dark hair. Another day or two, he estimated, and the result of his unplanned encounter with Edith Whiteley would vanish completely. Not that he was overly concerned. He’d been extremely careful. And even if there was a perfunctory investigation into the old woman’s death—something he seriously doubted—there was no way in hell he could be implicated.

  Satisfied, he now focused on more important matters. Taking a second sip from his glass, he looked over at the formidable figure waiting patiently in a leather armchair. “Anything for you, my friend?”

  As expected, the big man only shook his head.

  Oristano stepped around from the bar and dropped into a matching chair. In all his long association with Sabir Heikal, he never once saw the powerfully built Egyptian ever take anything stronger than coffee. Nor did he have first-hand knowledge he ever indulged himself in any other of the more routinely accepted vices. As curious as this was, it was a character trait Oristano much appreciated. For him, it demonstrated Heikal’s unique consistency, a man who lived a cold and purposeful existence, having no interest in the frivolous pursuits of those less disciplined.

  Considerably taller and darker than most of his countrymen—possibly the latent heritage of a Sudanese ancestor—Heikal was of indeterminate age, passing for anywhere between forty-five and sixty. His thick, jet-black hair was cut habitually short, the hard and unyielding features endowing him with a menacing aspect that was often disquieting to even the most casual observer. His widely spaced eyes, flat and slate-colored, only enhanced the allusion to an avid and predatory animal—one who Oristano knew had killed his first man before the age of fourteen.

  Most importantly, Heikal never failed his employer’s high expectations. He could aptly be described as an emotionless weapon of extraordinary ferocity, yet his loyalty was total and unquestioned—which made him a valuable asset, indeed.

  Oristano deposited what remained of his drink on the mahogany coffee table. His hurried call to Geneva had reached the big man only six hours earlier. Fortunately, Heikal was able to conclude his business a day sooner than scheduled. “I’m sorry about this sudden change in plans, Sabir,” he said. “However, it was quite unavoidable. I trust all went well with our Herr Dorfmann?”

  “It was inconvenient for him,” the Egyptian replied, “but he was accommodating.” The lack of expression on his face attested the transaction was nothing more than routine. “His eighty thousand deutsche marks went into your Swiss account this morning. You’ll receive the confirming paperwork through regular channels.”

  “Excellent. And how did he take the news?”

  “Disappointed, naturally, but he understands the circumstances. He was warned months ago that it was only a matter of time before the supply of Sinai artifacts would be cut off. Too bad, really. Right now I’m sure he’d gladly pay double for a match to that small Rameses gold pendant.”

  Oristano reached for his cigarettes. His decision to back away from the Sinai operation was regrettable from a business standpoint, for the smuggled artifacts from this particular site were highly marketable, the profits enormous. But the risk factors had simply become too great.

  “Be that as it may, Sabir, we did very well for ourselves—far better, in fact, than I originally hoped. We should be grateful the Bedouin dug out as much as they did before the Egyptian authorities caught on.”

  “Perhaps, but I still believe there was much more to be had. If you allowed, I could’ve easily cured their womanish fears.”

  Oristano tossed an indulgent shrug, confident he’d made the right decision. His years of experience in these matters had long since taught him when it was time to break clean and cut his losses. There was always a point when risks began outweighing potential gains. “You’re wrong,” he said bluntly. “And I’ll tell you why. The Bedouin have notoriously long memories, and your solution to their ‘womanish fears’ would only be self-defeating. Can you seriously imagine them ever coming back to us if you worked over some of their comrades with that famous knife of yours? Not hardly. They’re a damn greedy bunch, I realize, but hardly stupid!”

  Heikal now appeared willing—albeit grudgingly—to concede the point. “You mentioned an urgent matter,” he said, changing the subject. “You onto som
ething new?”

  The smile on Oristano’s face deepened. “I believe so. Maybe something bigger that we ever dreamed.”

  As concisely as possible, he gave Heikal all the pertinent details of Manning’s extraordinary find, omitting his own unintentional confrontation with Dr. Whiteley. The latter wasn’t information the Egyptian needed. When finished, he handed over a newspaper clipping, adding, “The occasion was a retirement banquet some months ago. Manning’s standing on her left. Remember the face. I have nothing on the young woman. She’s American—long hair, attractive, late twenties—and needless to say, they’ll be traveling together.”

  Heikal studied the picture in silence, his expression unchanged.

  Watching him, Oristano considered the man’s composure to be nothing less than amazing. Heikal was no scholar, certainly, but neither was he without imagination. Surely, he appreciated the enormous value of any artifact that could be linked directly to Alexander the Great. But the actual sarcophagus? Who could even begin to put a market value on such a fantastic find?

  Heikal folded the clipping. “You say they’re in Egypt now?”

  “Flew into Cairo overnight. We’ll have to assume he’ll set up a meeting with this Gobeir fellow right away. He may even have done so already. So how soon can you get there?”

  “Not soon enough. Depends on what flight connections I can make. If you wish, I’ll put Hassan on their tail immediately. He can keep close tabs on them until I arrive.”

  Oristano considered the merits of this. Although they’d used Hassan many times over the past several years, there was something about the little man that never set quite right with him. “Anyone else we can use?”

  “At the moment, no. He’s the best I have in Cairo.”

  “Okay. Time is of the essence here. He can find them at the El Gezirah Sheraton. And while you’re at it, have him book you a room at Shepheards. I want you close—but not too close, understand? Manning’s never to lay eyes on you.”

  “Hassan will want to know what this is about.”

  “Not on this one, my friend. He gets nothing. Make it straight surveillance work for whatever reasons you think he’ll buy. I’ll leave that up to you. Just make damn sure there are no foul-ups. I want to know Manning’s every move. Whatever he learns—we learn. Everything!”

  “Consider it done.”

  Oristano downed the last of his drink. “I’ll be leaving Rhodes within the hour,” he said. “If the weather report holds, the Medea should reach Alexandria by early tomorrow evening. I expect a report within the next thirty-six hours.”

  “How do you want to be reached?”

  “Let’s not take any unnecessary chances. I’ll station someone at the public phone in Anfushi Park. When you have something, leave a message with him and I’ll call you back. You still have the number?”

  Heikal nodded, pushing himself to his feet.

  “Just remember one thing,” cautioned Oristano. “This Manning is no fool. He’s clever, this one. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him. There’s far too much at stake here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As the big man left the stateroom, Oristano depressed the button on his intercom to the flying bridge. “Ari?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Have Pauley run Mr. Heikal ashore immediately. You can take us out as soon as he returns.”

  “Very good, sir. And what about the girl?”

  Truthfully, he forgot she was even on board. Recruited before his arrival, he’d yet to lay eyes on her. But he trusted his captain’s judgment. Ari knew his taste in women.

  “Is she a local?”

  “No, sir. Athens. Her name is Angela, by the way.”

  “Well, tell her where we’re going. If she’s willing, make certain she’s got a valid passport. I don’t want any problems with the Alexandrian port authorities. If she checks out, send her in. Give me about twenty minutes.”

  He released the intercom.

  All things considered, everything seemed to be going his way.

  He let the shower run as hot as his skin could stand, inhaling the billowing steam deep into his lungs. The combination of straight vodka and the pelting spray helped clear the last residue of pain from his temple. Had he cautioned Heikal adequately? He wondered about it. Like all men of his kind, the big Egyptian sometimes underestimated the capabilities and perception of others. Manning had the potential of being a formidable adversary. Still and all, he was certainly no Heikal. Few people were, he thought, putting his arms into a fresh robe. The big man was in a league of his own.

  The girl was waiting for him.

  She sat naked on the bed, her slim legs crossed, a seductive smile on her pretty face. The pose was obvious, practiced, but not without a certain charm. The scant two pieces of fabric making up her swimsuit lay on the carpet. Ari hadn’t failed him. But then, how could he? Attractive and experienced women of her type roamed every port on the Mediterranean. Besides being pretty, his only criterion was they be young.

  Without speaking, he placed himself directly in front of her and looked into her uplifted eyes. So large, so enticing, he thought, and so completely devoid of innocence. It would be expecting too much, he knew, to find intelligence there, as well. He’d long since accepted the fact that the women—girls, really—who provided him the greatest sexual satisfaction were usually as boring as hell once out of bed. It was the price he paid for their youth and sexual athletics. This was unfortunate, but invariably true.

  He loosened the front of his robe and moved even closer, her coquettish smile only deepening as he put his hand alongside her head, entwining his fingers in the silky mass of her dark hair. Knowing his desire, she artfully wet her lips as he drew her forward.

  * * *

  The Assistant Curator of Antiquities, Prof. Omar Bayoumi, beamed with genuine delight as he strode across the tiled floor of the Cairo Museum’s East Gallery. A short, lean man in his mid-fifties, his clipped footsteps echoed in the empty hall as he approached the familiar figure standing alone before one of the many exhibition cases. It was twenty minutes to nine, just ten minutes after opening. As a general rule, this particular gallery was among the very last to be filled by touring visitors.

  Bayoumi eagerly extended his arm.

  “Welcome back to Cairo,” he said, shaking David’s hand vigorously. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you called this morning. I’d no idea you were here in Egypt. It’s been far too long, my friend.”

  “Over three years, Omar. Good to see you again. I appreciate your giving me a few minutes of your valuable time.”

  Bayoumi appeared instantly offended.

  “For you?” he exclaimed. “Why, I am ever at your disposal! The museum is greatly indebted to you, sir.” He tapped the thick glass of the exhibition case with his knuckle. “I see you’ve been admiring your falcon. I do hope you approve the prominent position we’ve given it. As you see, it is the focal point of the entire display.”

  The reason for his deep gratitude lay beneath the protective glass. It was an extremely rare twelfth century lusterware bowl from the early Fatimid dynasty. Patterned into its rich, ochre glaze was a stylized hunting falcon of great beauty. Some three years earlier David was instrumental in acquiring it for the museum. Without his active involvement, the bowl would’ve been lost to a private European collector. Alerted to the rumor of a unique find made within Cairo itself, David had used the grudging influence of his most reliable contact in the black-market to arrange a clandestine meeting with one of the smugglers. Fortunately, the museum’s cash offer was sufficient to entice the man into betraying his comrades in favor of a separate deal.

  Bayoumi now led him up the worn marble stairway to his second floor office. Lacking air-conditioning, David found the cramped quarters already stuffy with the morning heat. The sluggish, overhead fan offered no real solution to the problem; if anything, the slow moving blades did little more than stir loose paperwork on the overburde
ned desk.

  “You chose the worst possible time to visit Cairo,” he said, directing David to a chair. “The heat is positively crippling this summer.” He wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief, momentarily erasing the line of sweat seeping down from his wiry, black hair. “Now somewhere I have that information you—Ah, here it is—Dr. Gobeir’s address.” He handed the sheet over before sitting down. “His phone number is there, as well. You should have no problem. And please be sure to give him my deepest regards, for I’ve not laid eyes on the dear fellow since his recent retirement.”

  A glance at the paper said Gobeir’s residence was in Heliopolis. It was one of Cairo’s most exclusive suburbs, an area of wide boulevards and spacious villas. He slipped the address into his shirt pocket, noting how Bayoumi was watching him with a curious expression.

  “So tell me, David. What’s the real reason you wish to see me? I can only assume there must be more than this.”

  “Was I so obvious?”

  A broad smile split Bayoumi’s face. “No, just a lucky guess. We both know I could’ve given you this information over the phone. Now how else may I be of service to you?”

  David knew Bayoumi was as honest as they came. It was no secret he worked his way up the hard way, struggling out of Egypt’s worst poverty to make it where he was today. For this alone he had David’s respect. Thus he came directly to point. “I need your help, Omar. I want to set up a meeting with Sharif Khafaghi—and I haven’t the faintest idea how to reach him. Things are not what they once were.”

  The Assistant Curator arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised. He’d always known what a great many of his colleagues at the museum only speculated about; it was Sharif Khafaghi who was the intermediary between David and the smuggler three years ago. What it must’ve cost his friend for the old scoundrel’s service was something he often wondered about, but never asked. But he did, however, recognize David’s present predicament, for getting a message to Khafaghi through a reliable contact was no longer so simple a matter as in years past.