The Amun Chamber Page 8

  “I’m not sure I can guide you in this matter,” he said finally. “Like many, I keep my ear to the streets, but what I hear is that Sharif has been very ill for many months, possibly even dying. And perhaps the rumors are true. Truly, he must be as old as the pyramids by now.”

  “At least,” David agreed with a smile. He couldn’t say as much, but this was precisely why he needed to talk with him.

  Bayoumi pursed his lips, considering the problem.

  Waiting, David lit a cigarette, listening to the muted traffic noises filtering up through the high casement windows facing Tahrir Square. Here was the never-ending heartbeat of Cairo. A dull roar throughout most of the night, it only worsened at sunrise, never letting up for the rest of the day. Last evening during their long drive in from the airport, he promised Elizabeth that he wouldn’t waken her before ten o’clock. Now he wondered if she managed to get any sleep at all.

  Bayoumi expelled a faint sigh; then said, “I can think of only one avenue you might try. No guarantees, mind you, but it’s what I’d do if—Allah forbid!—I ever had occasion to contact Sharif. There’s a talented young coppersmith by the name of Zahir who has a shop on the Shari Al Mu’izz, close to Old City’s al-Hakim mosque. I’m not certain, but rumors hint he has some sort of connection to the Khafaghi family. Give him your message along with a five-pound note.” He lifted his shoulders. “At worst, he’ll keep the money and forget he ever saw you.”

  * * *

  The intense heat outside the museum hit David like the hot breath of a blast furnace. In just the past hour the traffic had easily doubled, the temperature already climbing into the low nineties with noon still two hours away. Catching a taxi was no problem. A long line was busily discharging throngs of passengers at the main gate. He flagged down the first empty one and gave his destination.

  Despite the driver’s skill, the relatively short distance back to the southern tip of Gezirah Island took a full twenty minutes to accomplish. Half of this alone was spent just crossing west on Tahrir bridge, for a phalanx of cars, trucks, and battered buses—all seemingly with unmuffled engines—now jammed the streets leading in and out of the city center. It was Cairo traffic at its worst. Acrid fumes mingled with the ever-present dust off the desert to create a dull, yellow haze encasing everything as far as the eye could see. What pavement remained visible beneath the packed mass of vehicles and teeming humanity literally shimmered in the fierce heat. Adding to the turmoil, the piercing sound of Arab music blared from inside storefronts and countless car radios.

  His meeting with Bayoumi had taken longer than anticipated. With any luck, however, Elizabeth was still asleep, unaware he even left the hotel. There were valid reasons not to involve her. Despite Edith’s conviction to the contrary, he needed something more substantial to be convinced. If Lionel ever dealt with the Cairo black-market back in the fifties, then Sharif Khafaghi would almost certainly know of it. If he got nothing else from the old man, he’d at least get that much out of him. He need only mention Lionel’s name. Any reaction at all, even the slightest flicker of recognition, would tell the tale. For Elizabeth’s sake, he hoped no connection existed. But unless her grandfather’s activities over the last few months of his life were revealed, they had next to no chance of ever learning the source of the gold disk.

  He paid his driver outside the main entrance of the El Gezirah Sheraton.

  It was considerably cooler inside, though he suspected the hotel’s air-conditioning system would soon be fighting a loosing battle. He pressed for the eleventh floor at the Tower Service elevator. Their first priority, he knew, must be Dr. Gobier. Any attempt to contact Sharif would have to wait on the back burner. At least for the moment.

  A uniformed waiter was exiting Elizabeth’s room as he approached her door, and he slipped inside. Parked beside her bed was a service cart bearing toast, fresh fruit, and a pot of coffee. He poured a cup, adding a splash of cream the way she liked it.

  She stood barefoot on the sun-drenched balcony, staring out at the apparent mayhem below. She was wrapped in a thin robe, her hair still damp from the shower. Hanging straight off her shoulders, it shone like polished bronze in the morning light—and when she turned to him the excitement in her eyes was of a young girl completely overawed by something unexpected and wondrous.

  “Oh, David,” she exclaimed, “I can hardly believe it! Cairo is—well it’s just everything I ever dreamed it would be!”

  Her obvious delight was infectious. He grinned as he handed her the cup, thinking maybe this apparent sense of adventure was exactly what she needed in her life. And maybe subconsciously sought since the day he first met her? True or not, he loved what he saw happening to her.

  “Welcome to Egypt, Elizabeth.”

  * * *

  David found himself liking Dr. Gobeir almost immediately. It was after one o’clock when he and Elizabeth arrived in the suburb of Heliopolis. Now, two hours later and seated around a patio table in the privacy of Gobeir’s shaded garden, he felt increasingly confident that Edith had steered them to the right man.

  It would be difficult for anyone, he imagined, not to be impressed by the elderly scholar. He was a square-shouldered man of medium height and amiable disposition. Completely bald save for a narrow fringe of silver above his ears, he seemed surprisingly robust for someone in his late seventies. Modern Egyptians traced their ancestry from a wide variety of racial pools, but it appeared a fair bet a disproportionate number of his forefathers were probably of the fellahin, the original inhabitants of the Nile valley. Though his present physique was more portly than lean, the extra pounds he carried were suspiciously concentrated around his middle; likely as not, David reasoned, acquired through the inactivity of retirement. Like many well-educated Egyptians, Gobeir’s accent was noticeably British in flavor, in his case doubtless attained along with his many degrees at Wadham College in Oxford.

  They initially sat alone with the old gentleman; but when his long-time personal assistant, Ahmed Rashidi, joined them for a late lunch, Gobeir asked to have the entire story of the disk repeated for the younger man’s benefit. Recognizing the very close and confidential working relationship existing between the two men, David saw no reason not to comply.

  A trim and pleasant-featured man in his late twenties, Rashidi was considerably darker than Gobeir, his jet-black hair straight and conservatively cut. As much a son to his mentor as a devoted assistant, he was, in Gobeir’s biased judgment, the ablest researcher in all of Cairo—and thus the one best qualified to ferret out Burkhart’s records from the Egyptian Museum.

  The retelling of their find seemed to enthrall Gobeir all over again. Listening closely, he only occasionally lifted his eyes from the gold disk—and then merely to satisfy himself that his assistant understood the stunning implication of this discovery. Being a learned historian in his own right, Rashidi’s amazed expression spoke for itself. If anything, it appeared to leave him speechless.

  “And to think,” said Gobeir, “I recently remarked to Ahmed how dull things had become over the past few years. And now this! I can’t begin to tell you how pleased and flattered I am Edith suggested my name. You’ve made an old man extremely happy, I assure you.”

  “Then I take it you’ll help us?”

  Gobeir’s eyes widened in surprise. “Help you, David? Why, we’ll do everything we possibly can! How could you even think otherwise?”

  “We weren’t sure if you would be willing to invest all the time and energy this might require,” said Elizabeth.

  “Believe me, my dear, time is all I have anymore. And damn few responsibilities. I think I speak for both of us when I say how excited we are at being involved in such a fascinating undertaking. Am I right, Ahmed?”

  “Indeed, yes,” replied the younger man; then turned abruptly to David. “As to Burkhart’s records from Tell El Amarna, however, I can well appreciate the need for identifying anyone who knew or worked with Mr. DeCaylus, but surely it’s not your contention this
artifact actually came from that dig? I mean, the site of that short-lived city was totally abandoned well over thirty-three centuries ago. That’s roughly a thousand years before Alexander was even born. For this to have been unearthed there would be—”

  “An anachronism of the first order, I agree. Not unlike finding a car battery beneath the ruins of a Mayan temple. But even still, it has to be our starting point. In the last weeks or days before Lionel died, he must’ve found something that eventually led him to this disk. Now whether or not this ‘something’ came out of Tell El Amarna, I haven’t the foggiest. It’s all pure speculation at this point, right?”

  Gobeir stroked his chin, pursing his lips.

  “Which definitely makes locating Burkhart’s records of paramount importance,” he then said. “I only hope we don’t disappoint your expectations. I hate to say it, but the undertaking might prove a tad more difficult than you imagine.”

  “You foresee problems?”

  “Well, I guess it remains to be seen. You must know, the accumulated documents now stored in the Egyptian Museum runs literally into the tens-of-thousands; everything from site identifications, excavation permits, historical evaluation studies, private journals, diaries—and, unfortunately, this vast collection has been woefully neglected. In all candor, it’s only been in the last few years we’ve received adequate funding to properly confront the situation.”

  Rashidi cut in, trying to clarify all this.

  “Please don’t misunderstand, Professor,” he said. “There’s no doubt all of the records we seek—whether they be copies or originals—must still be there. It’s just that it could conceivably take a few days for me to locate them.”

  Not exactly what David wished to hear. Yet it would have to suffice. In truth, he was grateful Rashidi was willing to accept what could be a very daunting task. Aloud, he said, “Then we’ll just have to live with however long it takes. It may be a blind end anyway, considering all the years that have gone by. As far as tracking down any of his fellow workers from the site—” He lifted his shoulders and shook his head. “Names by themselves won’t do much good if none are still alive.”

  Gobeir saw his point.

  “I’m afraid you’ve put your finger on the crux of it, David. It’s been a bloody long time. I’ve been sitting here wondering if any of my older colleagues might’ve worked that site in the fifties. A few possibles do come to mind, but no one who is still with us, I’m sorry to say.” He paused. “But there’s another aspect to those records that may still be of enormous help. It would all depend, of course, on just how encompassing they are.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, it’s not like Burkhart was a complete unknown. His reputation was still solid at the time. And he definitely had the funding. Thus it’s very possible—even probable—many university students from right here in Cairo would’ve offered their services simply for the experience. That would put them at my age, give or take. Much better odds of finding some still alive. The question is, however, will those records list non-payroll volunteers? It’s standard practice now, as you know, but it wasn’t always the rule.” He paused, his face thoughtful. “I assume you both know how short-lived that excavation actually was. It stayed open for just two seasons, I think, before Burkhart’s permit was pulled. Mind you, I do believe he was a good man, just not competent enough to run such an ambitious undertaking. Rumors quickly abounded of stealing, mismanagement—you name it. He was in over his head, no question. The authorities really had no choice but to shut him down.”

  After a period of silence, Elizabeth asked, “And the name, Lionel DeCaylus? It’s not one you ever remember hearing? No recollection in any context, whatsoever?”

  Gobeir moved his head sympathetically.

  “No, my dear. I wish it were otherwise.” He looked again at the faded photo lying beside the gold disk, a wistful smile visible on his face. “You know, it now strikes me that if I wasn’t off furthering my education in England, I might very well have been one of those volunteers. Rather ironic, don’t you think? A twist of fate may have kept me from working alongside your grandfather, a man who it appears just might very well have gone on to discover the fabled coffin of Alexander the Great. Quite astounding!”

  David and Elizabeth glanced at each other, both aware this was the first real indication from Gobeir that he actually accepted their theory of the disk’s origin. Until this moment, the old scholar had avoided committing himself one way or another.

  “So what’s your gut opinion on this?” David asked. “Think this is anything more than a wild dream?”

  Gobeir hesitated before answering, but only briefly.

  Lifting his eyes to David, he said in a firm voice, “I have no doubts, whatsoever, that this came from his sarcophagus. What other logical conclusion can be drawn?” He now flashed a toothy grin. “I learned a long time ago, old boy, that here in Egypt almost anything is possible!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was well after nightfall when Heikal entered the quiet lounge adjoining the Sheraton’s open-air restaurant. The spacious room was only moderately filled; Arab businessmen mostly, very few Europeans. Late August wasn’t Cairo’s season for foreign tourists.

  His eyes swept the room, finally settling on an unobtrusive figure in a rumpled, brown suit sitting alone at the far end of the bar. The man was nursing a drink, a twist of smoke curling up from the cigarette parked in his ashtray. Of average height and build, he appeared quite capable of blending into almost any background. Even his features seemed nondescript, a physical anonymity bestowed upon him by nature and one he practiced to perfection.

  Hassan’s expression gave no hint of recognition as Heikal took the barstool beside him. He butted out his cigarette, saying, “I expected you sooner, Sabir.”

  “My flight was delayed,” the big man answered, waving off the approaching bartender with a curt gesture of his hand. “So then, tell me what you have so far.”

  Hassan inclined his head towards the outside restaurant. “They just sat down to eat a few minutes ago. They’ve got two tower suites, both on the eleventh floor.”

  “What about transportation?”

  “He’d already rented a green Renault through the hotel before I got here. It’s in the lot over there to the left.”

  “When did you pick them up?”

  “Not until about three-thirty. I came straight over when you called, but they’d already gone somewhere. I waited in the lobby until they got back. Twenty minutes later and they were off again, me on their tail.”

  “No idea where they might’ve been this morning?”

  “How could I?”

  Heikal nodded, thinking Hassan had actually done very well under the hurried circumstances. Doubtless Manning spent those hours with Dr. Gobier. He briefly considered showing Hassan the newspaper clipping for positive identification, but instead said, “So where are they seated?”

  “Poolside. The waiter’s only now taking their order. I suspect they’ll be here for quite a while.”

  Heikal turned on his stool and looked out through the tinted glass doors. The man’s back was towards him, but his face was visible in profile as he spoke with the waiter. No question, it was Manning. He then concentrated on the woman, thinking Oristano’s brief description didn’t do her justice. She was more than merely attractive. And, too, there was something quite striking about the color of her hair. “Where exactly did they go this afternoon?” he asked.

  The smaller man grimaced in disgust. “Damn tourists! They spent the last six hours dragging my sweating ass through half the stinking bazaars in Old City.” He paused. “So when are you going to tell me what all this is about?”

  Heikal extracted an envelope from his suit. “You know all you need to for now. This will more than compensate for your minor discomfort. Stay with them until you’re certain they’ve turned in. Did you make my reservation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Call me if you see anything
the least bit unusual. I’ll want to know. Use my cell number. Don’t waste time with the hotel phone.”

  Satisfied with the envelope’s weight, Hassan slipped it into his breast pocket. He then risked a leering smile. “The woman has little meat on her bones, but is still beautiful, don’t you think? This Manning is most fortunate to—”

  “Your taste in women is of no interest to me,” snapped Heikal. “You have your instructions. Bring a car around for me early. No later than five-thirty.”

  “When have I ever let you down?”

  After Heikal left, Hassan gulped down the last of his drink and gestured for another. Had the big man detected the growing anxiety behind his calm façade? He fervently hoped not. When his drink arrived, he consumed a full third of it in one long swallow, trying to deaden the knot of fear steadily building in his stomach.

  But it gave no relief. Nor did the two others he consumed over the next hour.

  Hassan had seen Manning surreptitiously pass something to Zahir outside the shop on the Shari al-Mu’izz. Now he debated the wisdom of hiding this information. But what choice did I have? he wondered in rising panic. As important as this information might be to Heikal, it could prove infinitely dangerous to himself! The young coppersmith’s ties to the Khafaghi family were known—and the mere thought of where that might lead scared the living hell out of him. Damn Heikal for involving me in this! Of all the fucking people in the world, why did it have to be David Manning?

  * * *

  “More coffee for you, sir?”

  “Hmmm?” David’s thoughts were elsewhere. “No, thank you.”

  The waiter moved on.

  The temperature had fallen since sunset, the air now pleasantly cool. In the near distance the bright lights of the grand luxury hotels along Corniche Boulevard shone over the heart of the city. Adding to the evening’s charm, a reddish moon floated overhead, its broken reflection dancing across the dark surface of the Nile.