Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

“No,” said Lazarus. “Silver wasn’t a preferred metal for the Ancient Egyptians, being rarer than gold in this part of the world.”

“Yes, they tended to use gold to represent the glory of the gods, especially the Aten, gold being a handy stand-in for the sun’s glare. But some of these silver items specifically allude to the Aten, suggesting that there is another aspect to Akhenaten’s religion that we have previously been blind to.”

“A silver Aten,” mused Lazarus. “The moon, perhaps?”

“That was my conclusion as well. A number of these items have been reported on the black market, and any significance other than their material value is lost on all but the likes of us Egyptologists. Maspero and the Egyptian police have been trying to crack an illegal antiquities ring for years without success, long before these silver items began appearing on the market. The goods are probably brought into the city by fellahs who have some access to the tombs. Maybe they live in their localities and have kept their discoveries secret, or perhaps they are employed as workmen on digs and are hiding items in their breeches, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that some of the items I’ve seen have come from tombs undiscovered, officially speaking.”

“Undiscovered?”

“For example, I have seen with my own eyes a funerary necklace passing hands that bore the cartouche of Ramses II.”

“A funerary necklace? But that could only have been buried with the mummy of its owner.”

“And the mummy of Ramses II has never been found! Exactly! And there’s more—a ring belonging to Seti I and an ushabti bearing Thutmose II’s name. The list goes on. We know that it wasn’t uncommon for the ancient Egyptians to remove the mummies of their forefathers from tombs threatened by robbers and hide them in other tombs, often several mummies bunking in together. To me it seems that somebody somewhere knows the location of a cache of royal mummies that may contain every undiscovered pharaoh mentioned on any king list anywhere!”

“And you believe that these silver items come from the same dealers as those who know the location of this royal cache?”

“Well, it seems reasonable to think so. Even if the source of the silver Aten items is not the same as this royal cache, then the items are following the same channels onto the black market.”

“But do you really think Eleanor Rousseau is behind it all? Even if she is the one who has discovered some sort of temple to the silver Aten, it doesn’t fit with what I know about her to be selling priceless items to tourists.”

“No, I quite agree. But as I said, perhaps the fellahs working on her dig are palming the artifacts without her knowledge. If so, there has to be a great many of them for some to escape her notice.”

“But where is this dig?” Lazarus asked.

“Ah, that’s the real question, isn’t it? Nobody knows. No new concession has been recorded in Lindholm’s or Rousseau’s name, so if they really have found some new site they’re keeping it to themselves. And nobody’s seen hide or hair of them for a long time.”

“Perhaps they were murdered by their workmen for control of the artifacts.”

Petrie frowned as he took another drag of the hookah. “Not unlikely, one fears.”

“Either way, I have to find out.”

“Well, I’ve told you all I know and given you my thoughts on the matter. How do you intend to proceed?”

“Right now the black market is our only possible link to Rousseau,” said Lazarus. “And that is the lead we must follow.”

Chapter Three

In which a short voyage in the Bulaq Harbor comes to a disastrous end

The night was still young, despite the somber darkness of the streets and the still air whispering through the alleys. In other parts of Cairo one might still find Europeans sitting on the streets outside cafes, sipping coffee and watching the nightlife saunter past. But north of Azbekya Gardens, doors were bolted and lamps blown out in windows.

The only life seen in the streets was the scurrying of rats, and the only sounds heard were the occasional hurried footsteps of some citizen on a late errand. There were cafes in this neglected district but they did not advertise their existence. Only those who knew Cairo’s darkest secrets knew where to find these dim cellars where the scent of scalding coffee was often masked by the more pungent odor of hashish.

“Are you sure you know where you’re taking me?” Petrie asked, his voice betraying his tingling nerves. It was not a question of geography—he was sure Lazarus knew the city as well as any Cairene—but the darkness in the alleys seemed to be growing all about them as they delved deeper and deeper into this crumbling, seldom visited district. He did not openly challenge his companion’s wisdom in this late night foray into the city’s seedy underbelly, but hurried to keep up as Lazarus took one alley after the other, following some map in his head.

“We’re quite safe,” Lazarus said. “Do you carry a revolver?”

“Certainly not.”

“You should, you know.”

“I tend to do my damndest to avoid a situation where I might have need of one.”

“As do I, but if we want to get to the bottom of this black market business, then we must pursue my only doorway into that world. And that doorway is a man called Murad.”

Petrie suppressed a wince at Lazarus’s use of the word ‘we’. At no point had he expressed a desire to become an accomplice to Lazarus’s mission and at no point had Lazarus questioned the idea that he might not want to. But as they dashed down the dusty, nighted streets in pursuit of their lead, Petrie could hardly argue that he was not a little bit excited.

“So who is this Murad and how do you know him?” he panted as they rounded another corner.

“Smuggler. Black market merchant. I had an encounter with him back in eighty-one. That was over some antiquities that had gone missing. But Cromer was interested in him for smuggling more than looted treasures.”

“Guns?”

“All manner of weapons that seemed to find their way into the hands of the Mahdi’s dervishes, as well as various nationalist groups.”

“Is he one of those blighters?”

“No. His pursuit of profit outweighs any political views. And that makes him useful to us.”

They finally arrived at their destination. It was a sorry two-storey building that could have been a house, a shop, a café or all three combined, for its blank walls and dark windows betrayed no secrets. A set of steps led down to a cellar lit by oil lamps from which the sound of many voices could be heard.

Their entrance warranted a lot more scrutiny than their visit to the previous coffee shop had. White men were almost never seen in these places, and if they were they always spelled trouble. Lazarus nodded at the proprietor who seemed to recall his face and came over. “Coffee please,” Lazarus said.

The man nodded and poured them both cups. “You have returned,
Ingleezeh
.”

Petrie raised his eyebrows. The lack of the respectful term ‘effendi’—often used by native to Englishman—indicated that Lazarus was considered to be on a more equal footing with these Egyptian night owls than the average white man.

“I’m looking for Murad,” said Lazarus.

The man seemed a little relieved that there was not more to their visit than the pursuit of antiquities, and set the coffee pot down. “He’s upstairs. I will get him if you would like to make yourselves comfortable.”

They went over to some cushions and sipped their coffee. After a while their man came down the steps from the floor above, fastening his breeches and looking flushed.

“Still haunting this shit-hole, Murad?” Lazarus said to the man.

Murad froze as he saw Lazarus. His eyes darted to the door as if calculating his chances of making it out onto the street before somebody should put their hands on him. “
Effendi
! It has been many years! What brings you back to Cairo?”

“Come and sit with us and we’ll tell you.”

The man threw more nervous glances about and decided that he was safe enough for the time being, and sat down.

“I hope you are still in the antiquities business or our trip has been wasted,” Lazarus told the man while motioning for more coffee to be brought.

“I… ah… yes,” said Murad, not knowing what was the wisest answer to give. “You wish to buy again? I remember you as a very hard bargainer. I’m not sure my purse could take another of your beatings. Daylight robbery, really.”

“Luckily for you it’s nighttime,” Lazarus reminded him. “And this time I’m looking for something extra special. If you don’t have it, I’d appreciate your telling me where else I might look.”

Murad leaned in closer, his greedy eyes alight at the prospect of a customer’s desperation. “What is it this time?”

“Silver items dating from the eighteenth dynasty, particularly from the reign of Akhenaten.”

Murad’s eyes narrowed and a look of worry creased his brow. “Unheard of,” he said, simply.

“We’ve heard of them,” said Lazarus. “They would be very new to the market. In the last year or so. They come from a new dig, the whereabouts of which is uncertain.”

Murad’s face remained grave and he said nothing.

“These are priceless items,” Lazarus went on. “They signify an aspect of the Aten worship that we know nothing about. Their value to the antiquarian society far outweighs their material value. Whoever could lead us to them would be rewarded handsomely.”

Murad seemed to reconsider his stance. “Ah, the Aten worship, of course. You must forgive me, sirs, I am not as well educated in my own country’s history as you are. Yes, I know a man who has come by some of these items of silver. But he is himself a collector and I do not think he would be willing to part with them for their mere street value.”

“Just tell us where we can find him and leave the bargaining to us,” Lazarus said.

Murad made a show of looking around the cellar with caution. “He owns a shipping company on the docks. The name is Bayoumi. It’s a big place. Ask around and you’ll find it but for the love of Allah, don’t tell anybody I sent you. The police are making things hard enough for me as it is and I don’t want to endanger my business relationship with Mr. Bayoumi.”

“Very well,” said Lazarus. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

Murad nodded and scurried off, having suddenly decided that he was tired and needed no further entertainment for the evening.

The following morning they found the Bulaq docks more than living up to their reputed state of filth, bustle and decay. Gulls wheeled over the wharves, swooping down to snatch fish from the boats and off the carts taking them to market. Rats scurried along the gutters and up the mooring lines of the
dahabeahs
. It was well known that those spacious vessels were riddled with rats and insects, despite their popularity in previous years with European tourists wishing to venture up the Nile. Since the steamers had begun to churn the waters, the
dahabeah
business had fallen into disrepair along with the majority of their vessels, several of which could be seen rotting at their moorings.

“Lord, I couldn’t sleep a wink,” said Petrie as he approached Lazarus at their arranged meeting point. He was ten minutes late and looked pale and ill. “Too much bloody coffee for one evening.”

Lazarus smiled. Despite the Egyptologist’s complaints, he seemed as ready as ever to embark on their second round of detective work.
The excitement of digging holes in the desert and reading in dusty libraries must be wearing thin on the young scholar
, he thought.

They began asking around and were eventually directed to a large building with Arabic lettering painted on one side. Lazarus, whose Arabic was better than Petrie’s, read it aloud; “Bayoumi Shipping Inc. or something to that effect.”

It was an old building made from sandstone with crumbling and worn edges. Several scarred piers poked out into the harbor like gnarled fingers at which hulking steamers were moored, their sides grimy with rust. Inside the office, they found the manager leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk as he went through paperwork. He was a fat man with a scarred face.

“Good morning,” said Lazarus.

The only parts of the man that moved in response were his eyes as they looked up at them from his papers.

“We are looking to buy one of your company’s steamers. Is it possible to speak with Mr. Bayoumi?”

“Steamers not for sale,” said the manager.

“We represent a very wealthy businessman, sir,” said Lazarus. “And I believe that Mr. Bayoumi would be very interested in talking to us.”

The man continued to stare at them as if sizing them up. “Very well.” The man’s legs came down to rest on the floor, along with the front two legs of his chair. “I shall see if he is available. Wait here please.”

They stood around in the pokey office, littered with untidy piles of documentation and smelling of stale coffee and sweat. Once or twice a heavy set Egyptian came in to add a fresh bundle to the piles, eyeing the two strangers suspiciously. Eventually the manager returned.

“Come with me.”

He stood back to let them go through the door first and they proceeded in that awkward stumbling manner one follows when asked to lead the way through their host’s property. They wound up on the spacious floor of the warehouse. Several hulls were under repair and piles of crates, sails, timbers and other nautical detritus were piled up all around. Three chairs had been set up in the centre of the room, and other than a large man in a European business suit and a scarlet tarboosh the place was deserted. Lazarus had caught sight of the last of the workers departing on their way in, refusing to make eye contact with them. He looked at the vacant chairs and at the two thick-set laborers who had suddenly materialized on either side of the manager and decided that he did not like this situation at all.

“Gentlemen,” said the big, suited man. “I am Mr. Bayoumi. Please, sit down and I can have some refreshments brought.”

Lazarus did not like the idea of sitting down with heavies all about them but saw no polite way to refuse. They sat down. So did Mr. Bayoumi.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” He was smiling as if he was in on a secret they knew nothing about. “Ahmed tells me that you are interested in buying a boat. I have to say that I do not usually sell my vessels.”

“And I have to say that we are not really interested in buying a boat,” said Lazarus.

The smile continued. Mr. Bayoumi did not look at all surprised.

“We have come on a more delicate matter,” Lazarus continued. He eyed the toughs that stood nearby. “Perhaps you might like to discuss it more privately.”

“Not at all,” Bayoumi replied. “These are my most trusted employees.”

“Very well. We are very interested in acquiring some ancient Egyptian artifacts. In particular, items fashioned in silver dating from the reign of Akhenaten. We were told that you were the man to speak with.”

“Indeed? I must say that I am surprised by your request. The items you speak of are incredibly rare. So rare that only a handful know of their existence. I wonder, how is it that you two come to know of them?”

At this, Petrie couldn’t resist getting involved in the exchange. “We are Egyptologists, sir. Items from the reign of the Heretic Pharaoh are noticeably scant. Naturally we seek such artifacts to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of the eighteenth dynasty.”

“And yet you knew enough to know that they are made of silver. I wonder something else. If I were to call up the Antiquities Service, I would be able to speak with somebody who could verify your positions and your credentials? If I were to drop your names in conversation with Gaston Maspero he would be able to tell me something about you both?”

“Of course,” replied Lazarus. “We are very well known in our fields.”

Bayoumi’s eyes flitted to Ahmed, who stood behind them. He said something in Arabic which Lazarus translated in his head too late. He knew the order to search them had been conveyed just as Ahmed’s hands grasped his shoulders and one of the laborers came forward to check the pockets of his jacket.

“Sir! I must protest at this!” cried Petrie who was being held in a similar vice-like grip and was wriggling like a landed fish as his pockets were turned out.

Lazarus remained rigid, burning with rage, barely suppressed by the knowledge that it would be useless to put up a fight. They were dealing with gangsters—that was clear now—and to resist would only result in a beating, or worse.

Their captors finished turning them over and handed their wallets along with Lazarus’s gun and Bowie knife to Bayoumi.