The Skin Map (23 page)

“I beg your pardon, sir!” she replied haughtily. “I am his
niece
—not that
that
is anything to you.”

“No, of course not, my lady,” replied Kit. On sudden inspiration, he bowed to her and, for all his lack of practice, managed some degree of elegance. “Pray, forgive my thoughtless and entirely reckless presumption. I do apologise.”

His conciliatory manner had the desired effect. She appeared to relax slightly, though she still regarded him warily. “What are you doing in my uncle’s private room? What have you done with Sir Henry?”

Before he could answer, a chime rang from somewhere in the house.

“Ah, saved by the bell,” remarked Kit under his breath. “Perhaps you would allow me to explain myself over dinner. May I escort you to the table, my lady?”

He presented his arm the way he had seen it done in old movies. To his amazement, she accepted—but with a distinctly diffident coolness. “We will discuss this further.”

“Nothing would please me more,” he told her, and meant every syllable.

PART FOUR
The Green Book

CHAPTER 20
In Which Luxor’s Nefarious Trade Is Advanced

L
ord Burleigh sat mopping his brow with a limp handkerchief and tried yet again to remember why he had imagined that arriving in Egypt at the height of summer was a good idea. “If the heat doesn’t kill you,” he mused, “the flies surely will.” With that, he gave another informal gathering of the small, biting devils a swish of his horsehair swatter. “Cheeky blighters!”

He sipped from his tall glass of cool apple tea and loosened the starched collar of his second shirt of the day. From the palm-fringed comfort of the Om Seti Lounge of the Winter Palace Hotel, he sat in his big wicker chair and watched the hotel traffic traipsing through the lobby outside: European businessmen in dark suits and panama hats with decorative ladies on their arms, the women in crisp cream-coloured linen, high heels clicking on the polished marble floor; swarthy waiters in white kaftans bearing hookahs or tiny cups of tea on silver trays; sandal-shod bellboys in short satin trousers and red turbans; cigarette sellers with wooden trays of tobacco; wealthy Arabs in spotless white galabiyas.

All passed in languid procession. No one hurried. When merely ambling around in the heat of the day was considered foolhardy, rushing would be suicidal.

Overhead, a fan creaked as its woven rattan blades sifted the stifling air. Burleigh pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and clicked open the case. He would, he decided, give it another half hour and then call off the chase. If his quarry did not turn up, he would go down to the docklands and arrange shipping for the items held in storage since his last visit. With this thought in mind, he retrieved his wallet from the breast pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of the chair. He opened it and quickly counted his remaining funds and found that he still had a little more than eighty thousand Egyptian pounds.

The main problem with the trade in ancient artefacts was that everyone had a finger in the pie—the looters, the brokers, the warehousemen, the ship owners, museum curators, the police, and, last but by no means least, the customs officials. All had to be paid off
before
any sale could take place. It was an expensive business.

By dint of hard work, vigilance, innate good taste, and the uncanny ability to sniff out a trend before it developed, Burleigh had succeeded in a business that was growing more difficult by the day. Competition for the best pieces had increased season by season, with ignorant, heavy-handed freebooters moving in, driving up the prices unnecessarily and attracting greater attention from the authorities. It was to the point now where a fellow could not afford to put a foot wrong lest he find himself floating facedown in the Nile.

No honour among thieves, Burleigh concluded ruefully. The greedy morons would ruin it for everyone.

He finished his tea and cast a last quick glance around the hotel lobby. It was empty now. Anyone with any sense at all was resting from the heat.

Replacing his glass on the silver tray, he stood, drew on his coat, left the lounge, and walked to the front desk across the lobby. “I will be out for the afternoon,” he informed the concierge. “I shall want a cold bath when I return.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the man behind the marble countertop. “Will his lordship be dining in tonight?”

“I think so, yes. Have my table ready for eight o’clock.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And make sure you have a bottle of Bollinger chilled and waiting. It was warm last time, and I won’t have that again.” Receiving the hotel’s deepest apologies and assurance of better service, he strolled to the revolving doors and pushed through. The sun hit him like a sweaty slap in the face. He stiffened under its onslaught and signalled the white-coated porter in the plumed pith helmet to summon a taxi for him. In a moment, he heard the slow tap of hooves on pavement, and a mule-drawn trap rolled up to the foot of the hotel steps. He climbed into the back of the small carriage, saying, “Take me to the riverfront. I’ll tell you the place when we get there.”

The driver nodded and, with a flick of the reins, they jolted off through the narrow streets of Luxor, a shambling tangle of a city that was already ancient when Moses was a lad. They proceeded toward the river through progressively unsavoury neighbourhoods, dropping down the ladder of respectability rung by rung. Upon reaching the edge of the warehouse district, Lord Burleigh leaned forward and gave the taxi driver a street name. “I will tell you when to stop,” he added. A few minutes later they approached a large, dilapidated building. “This is it,” Burleigh told the driver. The carriage stopped outside the door. “Wait here and there will be a triple fare for you.” He held up three fingers to enforce the point.

“It will be done,
effendi
,” replied the driver, touching the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead.

Burleigh strode to the wide entrance door and gave a short series of rapid knocks. He stood examining the peeling plaster while he waited and at last heard the clink of a chain being unlocked and an iron bolt withdrawn. The door slid open to admit him, and he was met by a thin black Ethiope in a large red fez. “Lord Burleigh, the rich blessings of Allah be upon you,” said the man. “
Marhaban
.”

“
A’salaamu `alaykum
,” replied Burleigh.

“It is good to see you again, sir.”

“As ever, Babu, the pleasure is mine.”

The servant bowed low and stepped aside to allow him to enter. “My lord Hakim Rassoul is expecting you, sir. If you please to follow me.”

“After you, Babu.” Burleigh fell into step behind his guide. “Business is good?”

“Allah is ever generous, sir.”

The interior of the warehouse was dark, the air stale and dusty and hot. The little servant led him through rows of shelves stacked high with dusty objects: stone urns and jars; caskets; statues of owls, and cats, and hawks in wood and stone; boxes, chests, crates, and hemp-wrapped bundles of all sizes. Ali Baba the shipping clerk, thought Burleigh.

Back behind the towering stacks, at the far end of the warehouse, they came to a door set in a blank brick wall. Babu gave one small rap and opened the door. He bowed again, ushering his visitor in.

Burleigh stepped into a room that appeared to be a cross between a Bedouin tent and an accountant’s office. Behind a great slab of polished mahogany sat a slender, hatchet-faced Egyptian in a glistening silk waistcoat over a tight-fitting jalabah that was buttoned to his chin. The air was blue with the smoke of a recently extinguished cigar. “Burleigh! Come in! Come in! Peace of Allah be upon you, my friend. It is good to see you.”

“
Asalaam’u
, Abdel Hakim. You are looking prosperous as ever.”

“Tolerable—only tolerable. But why tempt God with complaints? Babu, you good-for-nothing, bring us whiskey!”

“Thank you, Hakim, but none for me. Too early in the day.”

“Is it?” wondered Hakim. “Well, then.” He shouted again, “Babu, bring us wine—and figs . . . and some of those dates.” He stepped around from behind his desk, took Burleigh by the shoulders, and embraced him. “It has been a long time, my friend.”

“Only six months,” replied Burleigh.

“That long? It seems much longer.” He smiled and waved his visitor to a carved boxwood throne covered in the fleece of a spotted goat. “I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“Pleasant enough.”

“Sit! Tell me the news of the world.”

“You know it better than I, Hakim. I only arrived yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, we had your message.” The antiquities broker settled back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his spreading paunch. “So! Here you are.”

“Here I am indeed,” Burleigh agreed blandly. “But I must say all the travel grows tedious—and buyers are more difficult to find. I’m thinking of giving it up and finding another line of work.”

“Nonsense!” cried the broker, outraged. “Never say it, my friend. We have the most successful export business this side of China. We are partners, you and I. If you quit, Hakim and Sons will die. Like grapes left on the vine, we will shrivel in the hot sun and die.”

“You have many other partners, Hakim. I expect you’ll survive.”

“True,” admitted the broker. “But none of my partners are as successful as you.”

“None who pay you as much, you mean.”

Babu entered just then with a teak tray bearing a bottle of wine, two crystal goblets, and dishes with figs in syrup and dried dates stuffed with almonds. He placed the tray on the desk, poured wine into the cups, and then backed from the room.

“Why so quarrelsome, my friend?” wondered Hakim. Seizing a cup in each fist he held them up to the light and then offered one to his guest. “Come, let us drink—to good trade always!”

“To good trade,” echoed Burleigh, raising his goblet.

They moved on to discuss arrangements for a number of items the earl had left in storage during his last visit; when that concluded, Hakim stood up and declared himself ravenous. “I could eat a camel,” he proclaimed. “Come, Burleigh, my dear friend. Dine with me. I will take you to a place I know on the river where they prepare a meal of such exquisite flavours the angels look down in envy.”

“I’m certain it is very good,” replied Burleigh, pulling his watch from his pocket. “But I had hoped to see some new things before I go.”

“Of course! Of course! And such things—” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “
Mmwa!
Wonderful things! The best yet. All for you.” Hakim reached behind his desk and brought out a small white satin turban and an ebony walking stick. “But a man must eat, and the restaurant is not far. The walk will sharpen your appetite.” He bounded across the office in long-legged strides and threw open the door. “Babu, you son-of-a-dog! We are going out. Admit no one while I am away.”

He locked the door, then turned and walked to a potted palm in a huge brass pot. On the wall behind the palm hung an ornate prayer rug; Hakim lifted the corner of the rug to reveal a hidden door, which he unlocked and beckoned his guest through. “This way. It is much closer.”

Abdel Hakim Rassoul led his visitor through a dark passage that opened out into a dim walkway—merely a space between two warehouses—at the end of which lay a sunny lane wide enough for horse- and ox-drawn wagons to come and go. The Egyptian antiquities broker turned and started off along the grassy verge. The smell of the river wafted along a breeze a touch cooler than the sun-drenched air of the city, letting them know that the Nile was close by. One turning and then another brought them to the riverbank and a large old house built on stilts to raise it above the perennial floods. At the top of the stairs they were greeted by a waiter in a coffee-coloured kaftan.

“
Asalaam’u
,” intoned the waiter. “Blessings be upon you.”

“
Salaam
,” replied Hakim Rassoul. “My table, if you please.”

The waiter led them through the restaurant and out onto a shaded terrace overlooking the river. Two or three other tables were already occupied. Woven grass mats propelled by an old man on a stool in a corner of the terrace fanned the air and made a light rustling sound. “Ahh,” sighed Hakim, folding himself into his chair, “it is a refuge for the weary, careworn soul.”

“You ought to be a poet,” observed Burleigh. “Your only care is how to spend your secret fortune.”

“Oh, my friend”—Hakim pouted—“have you no heart? Look! Behold that wonderful river.” He waved a long-fingered hand at the grey-green slow-flowing water. A graceful felucca with tawny sails was passing just then, joining the busy river traffic of boats and barges on their way downstream. Feathery fronds of papyrus swayed in the breeze off the water, tossing their golden heads in chorus. “Beautiful, is it not?”

“Indeed,” agreed Burleigh. “Very.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now then, what do you have for me? What will I see when we return to your den?”

The waiter poured water from a silver ewer into small glass beakers and into a silver bowl. “We will eat whatever Hammet has prepared today,” declared Hakim. “Bring it at once—and a dish of his spiced olives while we wait.”

That done, he turned to his guest. “What will you see? You know that things have been very slow lately. The market has become stubborn. However, I have a very nice sphinx—exquisite detail, fully intact, red granite with eyes of sapphire and gold headdress, big as a house cat. I could have sold it seven times over by now, but I saved it for you, my friend. I wanted you to have first choice.”

“It sounds expensive. What else?”

“Alas, as I say, it has been a slow season. Still, there has been some heavy excavation in one of the valleys west of Luxor this past winter. Some very good pieces are becoming available just now.”

“Who is excavating?”

“A man named Carter. He is funded by a wealthy backer—a lord somebody—I forget his name. . . .” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Cavanaugh, perhaps.”

“Carnarvon,” corrected Burleigh.

“You know him?”